


break (like waves)

by aspartaeme



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - No Monsters, Angst with a Happy Ending, Developing Relationship, Emotional Manipulation, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Possessive Behavior, Season/Series 01, Season/Series 02, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-16
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-03 19:48:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 12
Words: 93,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24761080
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aspartaeme/pseuds/aspartaeme
Summary: ‘We’re good together,’ Harrington says to the darkness above. Not a question. Matter of fact. He turns to Billy, a smile sweet enough to make Billy want to do something reckless. Something stupid. ‘I’m telling you, heartbreaker. We’re gonna be unstoppable.’Billy wants to ask. If he means tomorrow. If he means just for the game.Wants to ask if he means forever.He’s never wanted anyone to mean forever before.or; falling (in love), the hard way
Relationships: Billy Hargrove/Steve Harrington
Comments: 578
Kudos: 532





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> “Break often - not like porcelain, but like waves.”
> 
> ― Scherezade Siobhan

Billy’s used to losing. 

He’s been losing as long as he can remember. As long as he knew what losing tastes like. 

He’s nine, and his dad is screaming, and his mom leaves. Strike one. 

He’s twelve, and his dad says _you know how to share, doncha son_ , and he brings a fire with him, red hair and blues eyes, and she’s not, but dad says _here’s your sister, you’ll be sharing this room now_. Strike two. 

He’s fourteen, and strike three is a real good one. A real one. It hurts. It echoes, all around the empty house. _The girls_ aren’t home. They’re out shopping, or buying ice cream, or laughing, and Billy hits the ground. 

It’s not strong. The slap. It’s just—the first one. 

It hurts the worst. 

Billy’s fourteen, and dad hasn’t been _dad_ for a while, but a hand on Billy’s cheek seals the deal. 

_Dad_ becomes _Neil_. Billy hasn’t been a child, not for a long, long time. There’s no going back. 

That’s strike three. 

He stops counting after that. 

Losing tastes kinda the same, anyway. 

Tastes like blood in his mouth. Like purple and blue and yellow all over his skin. Like acid in the back of his throat. It tastes like three letters, and Billy— 

He learned the alphabet when he was five. It never tasted like anything. Never meant blood. Never meant fear. Just meant _f_ , and _a_ , and _g_. 

That’s another strike. 

Giving up the time when _f_ , and _a_ , and _g_ were just that. Just three letters. 

Just three drops in the ocean. And then _dad_ became _Neil_ , and _f-a-g_ became a word, and Billy learned its taste. 

That was another strike. 

Billy’d stopped counting long before that. 

* * *

He loses the ocean when he’s sixteen. 

It takes three days. Three days of driving, and driving, and driving. Away from the ocean. Away from home. 

Max is twelve, and she’s starting junior high this September, and Neil wants a _good_ town, an honest, clean, god-fearing town, to raise his child in. 

Child. One. Singular. 

Billy thinks, _she’s not even yours_. He thinks, _you never gave a shit where i grew up_. He thinks, _I wish I didn’t care_ , he thinks, _I wish you were still **dad**_ , he thinks, _I hate you. I hate you. I hate you._

He says, ‘Can I have my own room?’ 

Neil throws him a look, and Billy knows what it means by now. Can see the _watch yourself_ hanging in the air. Clear as a promise, clear as a threat, but. _The girls_ are home, and Susan is smiling at Billy, so Neil raises his hand, and pats Billy’s cheek, and raises one corner of his mouth when Billy flinches, just a bit, and says, ‘Of course you can, son. You’re a man, now. It’s about time.’ 

It sounds like a threat. 

It’s a win. Billy’ll take it. 

* * *

He loses the ocean, and he gets a room. 

He loses the ocean, and he gets Hawkins, and fields, and woods, stretching for miles and miles and miles, and he gets a room, and he gets a lock on his door. 

It’s on the wrong side. 

Neil is standing behind him, and _the girls_ are there, too. There are boxes everywhere, and a lock on the wrong side of the door. Neil’s still waiting for an answer. _How do you like your new room, son_. 

‘It’s great, dad,’ he says, and he never takes his eyes off the lock. There’s a metaphor somewhere in there, he thinks. He thinks about cages, and wild animals, and rings of fire. _Run. Keep going. Jump through the fire._ He swallows thickly. ‘I love it, really. Thanks.’ 

Neil pats him on the shoulder. 

Billy thinks he should count it as a win. 

It tastes a lot like losing. 

* * *

He’s been in Hawkins for two weeks when he meets Steve Harrington. 

It’s the first day of school. The end of it. Basketball practice. 

Billy’s restless. Tense. A shotgun ready to go off. 

He’s been away from the ocean for two weeks, and he’s already clawing out of his skin. 

He’s dribbling. Watching the ball, up-and-down and up-and-down, and he thinks there’s a metaphor, there, too. About letting go. Hitting what won’t hit back. 

IThe strike comes out of nowhere. 

‘Yo, California.’ 

Billy turns around, and. 

He thinks, _no_. He thinks, _not fair_. He thinks, _you don’t get to do that_. 

Two eyes are scanning him up and down. Big. Brown. Pretty. The prettiest eyes Billy’s ever seen. 

Billy’s lost enough. He can’t believe he came all the way to the middle of nowhere to lose his breath, too. 

Billy stares back. The guy’s preppy. Polished. His sneakers look like they just came out of the box. Like they were bought specifically for the first day of the new school year. White. Clean. Spotless. 

Billy’s been making do with hand-me-downs since. Forever, seems like. 

Neil doesn’t have money to spare on Billy. His _daughter_ is the priority. 

Billy’s sneakers are smudged, and the guy still hasn’t backed down. He hasn’t stopped staring at Billy. 

He can hear Neil’s voice in his head. Repeating the same three letters in a loop. 

There’s a ball thrown his way, and Billy fuckin’—abandons the one he’s been dribbling all this time. Lets it roll down the floor, away from him. Catches the one thrown his way. 

‘You play ball?’ The guy’s smirking, and Billy thinks, _not fair_ , he thinks, _I've lost enough_ , he thinks, _what’s a little bit more_. 

He rolls the ball in his hands. Feels the weight of it. Lets the heat of the guy’s skin seep through, light the fire in him. 

Brown Eyes keeps staring at him. Billy has to draw his gaze away. There’s an ache in him. A need. Bone-deep. Scratching at his insides. Maybe he’ll rile Neil up tonight, try to get a beating out of him, because. 

Billy breaks the first rule. _Never show weakness_. _Never back down first_. 

Billy just did. 

It’s fine. He can pretend to himself. Say it’s to size up the other guy, the smaller one. Freckles. 

Freckles has a look on his face. Billy knows well enough to recognize it. _Back off. He’s mine._

Billy smirks. He thinks, _not a chance. Not a fucking chance._

He starts dribbling again. Running. Crosses the court. Stops a good two feet before the three-point line. 

He shoots. Doesn’t even have to look at the ball. He knows. It scores. Goes through the net. _Swoosh_. A perfect three-pointer. 

He picks up the ball. Turns around to find Brown Eyes watching him. Transfixed, almost. Head held up. Lips parted, just a bit. Like maybe he’s impressed. Like maybe Billy won this round. 

Like maybe he’d rather die before admitting defeat. 

He elbows Freckles next to him. ‘Shit, Tommy,’ he drawls. ‘New guy’s gonna eat us alive.’ 

Billy throws the ball back to him. He catches it with a small huff. 

‘So,’ Billy stops in front of him. Close. As close as possible. Crosses his arms. Holds the guy’s gaze this time. ‘Let’s have it. What’s the verdict?’ 

The guy gives him a laugh. A real one. Rich. Genuine. ‘Color me impressed, Cali Boy,’ he drawls around the smile on his face. ‘I didn’t have it in you. Seems you can swim out of water, too.’ 

Billy has the urge to _smile_. He bites down on his lips. He’s given up enough victories for today. 

He chances a glance at Freckles. _Tommy_. It’s more urgent, now, the look on his face. _Back off. I was here first. Mine._

And. Like. 

Not a fucking chance. 

He extends a hand. ‘Name’s Billy. Hargrove.’ 

‘Harrington.’ The guy is strong. His grip on Billy’s hand is tight. Unyielding. His fingers graze the inside of Billy’s wrist. ‘ _Steve_. Nice to meetcha, California. Welcome to Hawkins. Ya got an ounce of sense in you, you’ll hate it here.’ 

Billy scoffs out something shaky. He doesn’t. He lost the last shred of sense he had the moment his skin met Harrington’s. That settled it. 

Harrington pulls his hand back. Billy finds he can think again, and breathe, and. 

It clicks. ‘Harrington? You the one everybody says runs the school?’ 

Harrington raises his eyebrows. Like maybe he’s surprised it took Billy that long. Like maybe no one’s ever taken that long before. ‘That’s me,’ he says. Proud. Unrelenting. ‘That alright with you?’ 

He licks his lips. Leaves them shiny and pink. Billy wants to taste them. He bets they taste like winning. 

He steals the ball back. Right out of _the king’s_ hands. Purses his lips. ‘Might just wanna pitch in,’ he says. Throws in a wink. To seal the deal. 

Harrington’s voice follows him down the court. ‘You’re sitting with us at lunch, Hargrove. Come find me.’ 

He’s not asking. 

Billy finds him anyway. 

* * *

‘You’re so _quiet_ , California.’ 

Harrington’s sitting close. Too close, even though everyone and their mother know this table’s reserved for them. For _him_. King Steve and his entourage. Harrington’s sitting close, even though Freckles and his girl are sitting on the other side, and it’s just Harrington and Billy on this one. 

He’s half-turned towards him. Like he wants to make sure Billy won’t flee. 

Billy won’t. He’s itching to. He _won’t_. He has no idea how Harrington figured him out so fast. ‘Don’t have anything to say,’ he says to the table. 

Harrington startles out a laugh. Leans forward. Right into Billy’s space. ‘Quiet people have secrets, Hargrove. Whatcha hiding?’ 

Billy blinks at him. There’s no way Harrington knows. He’s three seconds away from punching his way out of this. 

Harrington’s face breaks out in a smile. He claps Billy on the shoulder. ‘Relax, man, ‘m kidding. I got Tommy yapping in my ear all day long. I think it’s neat. That you’re quiet like that. I like it.’ 

Tommy’s already spouting out some protest, trying to save face, and Billy’d care, he _would_ , except. 

Except Harrington’s smiling at him, and his eyes are still locked on Billy’s, and his thumb is rubbing circles on Billy’s shoulder. 

Billy can’t think. He can’t take anything else in, not with Harrington’s eyes on his. He’s been in Hawkins for a month, and he’s already thinking about cows, and hicks, and burning marks. Harrington’s touch is scorching on his skin. Marking him. _Dibs_. _This one’s mine_. 

‘Where’s your lunch, anyway?’ Harrington asks. His hand slides off Billy’s shoulder. It’s about fuckin’ time. Billy needs his brain to be functional. 

‘Left it at home,’ he mumbles. It’s a lie. There’s no brown paper bag waiting for him back in Neil’s kitchen. Billy woke up _late_ today. Took a long time fixing his hair. Like the _f-a-g_ he is. So Neil had to step in. Take some measures. Make sure Billy _understands_. Make sure Billy knows his place, so. 

No lunch today. 

Harrington furrows his brows. ‘Why doncha buy something from—’ 

He trails off. Harrington knows. Billy’s caught him looking. At Billy’s hand-me-down sneakers. His worn-out backpack. His frayed jacket. It’s the same kind of fascination Billy’s nursing for Harrington’s squeaky-clean Air Jordans. His pressed polos. His notebooks, new and shiny and unused. It’s that—glimpse. Into another world. The draw of the unfamiliar. 

Well. 

It’s more than that for Billy, but. 

Harrington thinks it’s an answer. _Just buy something_. Just like that. Easy. Uncomplicated. _Attainable_. 

It’s not an answer, not to Billy. It’s just another problem. 

Harrington stops talking. Turns to his tray, features pinched in determination. He looks up at Tommy. Scrunches his face in disgust. ‘Tommy, man,’ he whines, ‘there’s mayo in this.’ 

Tommy stops playing with Carol’s hair long enough to blink at Harrington. ‘Okay?’ 

Harrington’s already rolling his eyes. ‘I fucking hate mayo, Tommy.’ He pushes the tray away from him. Closer to Billy. He stands up. ‘I’m not eating this,’ he throws over his shoulder, walking away. 

He comes back with a new tray. Looks pretty identical to the one Harrington shoved in front of Billy. He starts wolfing down his burger. 

Billy isn’t really. Sure what to do. He just. He stares at the tray in front of him. Harrington’s half-eaten lunch. Tommy shrugs at him when he looks for help, like, _you’re on your own here_. 

Harrington turns to him, still chewing his bite. ‘You like mayo, right?’ He says it like an afterthought. Like it’s convenient Billy’s there. 

It feels like a test. Billy’s _hungry_. Harrington’s putting on a show for him. He doesn’t know what it means. 

He grabs the burger. Harrington smiles at him. 

Billy thinks he passed the test. 

* * *

He lost the ocean, and he gained a room, and the lock is on the wrong side of the door, but. 

Billy’s learned to take his wins as they come. Horses and gifts and mouths, and all that. Billy never thought he’d live in a place where all this becomes literal, but. 

Still. It’s a win. When he closes his door. When he lies under the covers, and shoves a hand down his pants, and gets himself hard thinking about all the wrong things. 

He licks his lips. Harrington _fed_ him. He tastes him on his lips. 

Susan made pot roast tonight. Billy didn’t eat it. _The girls_ were there, so Billy was just sent to his room with a warning when he pushed the plate away. 

Billy knows there’s payback to look forward to, but. It’s hard to care about that when the house is quiet and Billy can see Harrington behind his eyes. 

He sinks his teeth in his bottom lip when he comes. Hard enough to sting. He bites back the name. He doesn’t want to give in yet. 

* * *

Hawkins High is right on the edge of town. Right next to the woods. The only thing keeping them safe from the darkness is a concrete fence. Big and wide and ugly as fuck. 

Billy finds Harrington sitting there. On top of the fence. Feet dangling aimlessly. He’s staring straight ahead. Facing the trees. 

Facing the darkness. 

Billy knows better than to lie to himself. Pretend he didn’t come all the way across the school yard looking for Harrington. Not when his stomach starts doing somersaults the moment he spots Harrington’s back. The tension on his shoulders. The way his hands are gripping the fence, like he’s afraid something will come out of the darkness, try to drag him into it. 

‘You don’t gotta hunt, man.’ 

Harrington doesn’t startle, and that’s a win too. Billy made sure to make _noise_. Announce his presence. Give Harrington the time to put the crown back on. 

He climbs on the fence. Bumps his shoulder against Harrington’s. Personal space isn’t something Harrington usually bothers with. Never has, so. 

Gifts, horses, mouths, and all that. 

Harrington turns around to face him, and Billy can spot the moment he comes back. His eyes focus on Billy. They always seem to do that. ‘Huh?’ 

‘’m saying, if that’s what you’re worried about. You don’t gotta hunt for food. Here.’ Billy drops the bag on Harrington’s lap. Watches Harrington’s fingers smooth over the crumpled paper. 

Harrington looks back up at Billy. A question all over his face. Amusement, too. Like he’s glad Billy’s here. Billy nods to the sandwiches in Harrington’s hand. ‘Smooth, right? You like it smooth.’ 

Harrington passes one to Billy. Starts unwrapping his own. Keeps his eyes on Billy. ‘Nah, I don’t mind a bit of an edge.’ 

Billy’s like. Immensely grateful he doesn’t have a bite in his mouth. Neil’s been beating his ass for years. Choking on a bite of pb-n-j would be. Well. Kinda hilarious, but. Not the way he always thought he’d go. He coughs out a laugh. 

Harrington grins at him. ‘Man, you’re something else, you know that?’ 

‘That bad?’ 

Harrington assesses him for a moment. ‘No,’ is what he settles on. ‘No, it’s good. You’re good.’ He takes a bite, and if _you’re good_ isn’t what kills Billy, the moan Harrington lets out’ll be. Harrington _moans_. 

‘Fuck me, this is good too, dude. Like. Seriously, what kinda flavor didja use?’ 

Billy is kinda—losing his mind, a bit. ‘Uh. Apricot, I think.’ 

Harrington whistles around another bite. ‘Damn, Hargrove. You sure know how to charm a guy, huh. Gettin’ all fancy on me.’ 

Billy shoves him, just a bit. It’s hypnotizing, being around Harrington. Being at the centre of his attention. It’s hypnotizing. Makes Billy feel dizzy, and floaty, and not all there. Makes him feel unmoored. 

He hasn’t even unwrapped his own sandwich. 

‘Don’t go thinkin’ I made it for you, King Steve. Max didn’t want hers, ‘s all.’ 

It’s only half a lie. Billy used the smooth peanut butter on purpose. Max can’t stand it. Billy was counting on that. He knew she’d scrunch up her face and throw it back in the bag. Billy’d already made another one for her. Used the crunchy peanut butter. Made sure the jelly was blackcurrant. Max’s favorite. He just—he needed her to give her little show first. 

He needed that excuse. Made him feel more. In control. Like he hadn’t spent his morning spreading peanut butter on two slices of bread too many. 

Harrington tilts his face. ‘Max?’ 

‘My si—’ He cuts himself off. Has to fight around the lump in his throat to get the word out. ‘My sister,’ he tries again. Shrugs with a nonchalance he hasn’t felt in years. 

It feels wrong. To say that. _Sister_. It feels like a lie. 

He likes Max. He does. There’s a fire in her that matches his own, sometimes, and that’s kinda terrifying, and exciting, and one more victory against Neil, but. She’s not his sister. 

‘I didn’t know you had a sister.’ It sounds like a question, or. An accusation, maybe. Like Billy betrayed Harrington, somehow. But not letting him in on—every secret part of his life. 

Billy thinks _you don’t have that right_ , and then Harrington blinks at him, eyes sharp. Burning. 

Billy wants to—he wants to burn. 

He must’ve stayed silent for a moment too long, because Harrington shifts his gaze to a point past Billy’s shoulders, and he goes, ‘No, wait, shit. I think I did. Red hair, right? Carries a skateboard everywhere?’ and when Billy nods, kinda in a trance, because he knew Harrington’s been watching him, it’s just. He never knew how closely, ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ve seen you driving her around. You guys seem close.’ 

That sounds like a question, too. Harington thinks Billy’s a puzzle. He’s trying to solve him. Billy is kinda. Letting him. 

They are, is the thing. Billy’s not about to admit it out loud, but. They’re close. Living under Neil’s thumb does that to you, he supposes. It worked for him and Max, anyway. Forced them close. They have a kind of—complicity between them. They understand each other’s limits in that house. They respect the ones each of them creates outside of it. 

He hums noncommittal. He’s done his part for the day. Gave Harrington a peak into his life. Gave him more than he was willing to. Harrington does that to him. Makes him want to—be seen. He figures it might not be that bad, not if it’s Harrington who sees him. 

Harrington knows how to pick his battles. That much Billy’s gathered by now. He knows a losing one when he sees it, so. He lets it go. Doesn’t push, even if Billy’s certain he’s itching to. 

‘You know nobody actually calls me that, right?’ He lets out a breathy chuckle. ‘ _King Steve_. Tommy does, but. He’s probably the only one. ‘m only half sure he didn’t coin it as a joke.’ 

Billy swallows down apricot and peanut, sees an opening. ‘Why’d you keep him around, anyway? Dude’s leeching off your spotlight, there’s no way you don’t see that.’ 

Harrington laughs softly at that. Billy feels his face heat up. _I did that_. 

‘He’s not so bad, man. We’ve known each other since we were babies, hell. Our _mothers_ knew each other since they were babies, and he’s good, deep down. Loyal. Would take a bullet for me, I can tell you that. It’s just. Sometimes he can be—’ 

‘A lot.’ 

Harrington smirks at him, and there’s an edge to it. Mischief. A boundary being pushed. ‘He was sucking face with Carol, back there. That’s why I’m playing Humpty Dumpty out here. Five minutes of that is five minutes too many. You get me, right?’ 

Billy knows a trap when he sees one. He can sense a question where every answer is wrong from miles away. It’s Neil’s favorite type of mindfuck. 

He thinks, _I wish. I wish I got you. I wish I had you_. 

He knows which answer Harrington’s waiting for. ‘Yeah,’ he says, and he keeps his voice flat, and he counts that as a victory. A small one. Still. ‘Yeah, I get you.’ 

Harrington purses his lips, like he’s trying not to smile. Like he won. He pats his jacket, finds what he’s looking for. Offers the pack to Billy. 

It’s an exchange. Food and information, traded for a smoke. 

A memory flashes through his mind. He remembers his history teacher, back in Cali, teaching them about the first colonists. The trade they made with the natives. Glass beads for a whole country. 

He takes the smoke. 

He lets Harrington light it for him. Lets the smoke burn him from the inside. Fill his lungs with something bitter, and dangerous, and _safe_. Harrington makes a gesture, and Billy passes him the cigarette, and their fingers brush, and Billy exhales. 

‘That even allowed in school grounds?’ 

Harrington lets his head fall back. Tilts his face toward Billy. Squints at him, eyes half-lidded. Throat bared. ‘I won’t tell if you won’t,’ he drawls around a grin. The sun makes his eyes look golden. 

He makes it look so easy, Billy thinks. It’s not _fair_. 

He watches the line of Harrington’s throat move as he speaks. Up-and-down, up-and-down. He wants to reach out. He wants to trace his fingers all over it. He wants to _touch_. 

He digs his nails in his palms. Lets the pain ground him. 

He looks at the trees stretched out in front of them. At the darkness ahead. 

He wants to be swallowed whole. 

* * *

It’s November. He’s been in Hawkins for three months. 

He starts a list. Pros and cons of life in Hawkins, Indiana. That type of contrived bullshit. 

He doesn’t fill the cons column. He drives through corn fields and cow shit every day. He doesn’t need any more reminders. 

Having his own room is at number two. It’s nice. Gives Billy the illusion of safety. Being able to keep the monsters out. It’s nice, for the split second it takes to remember the lock. 

It’s not meant to keep the monsters out, his room. It’s meant to keep the beast in. 

Still. It’s nice. Closing the door. Pretending. It’s nice, so. Second place. 

Hawkins is an everybody-knows-everybody kinda town. That comes in third. Everybody knows everybody, and someone’s business is everyone’s business, so. 

People notice. When something’s off. When blue and black and red appear often, in places they’re not supposed to. There are only so many fights a sixteen year old can get in. The troubled child rumour can only go so far. 

So. Neil is—he’s more careful, here. He knows. A broken wrist won’t go unnoticed, not in Hawkins. Not when it wasn’t broken the day before. 

Neil’s more careful, but. 

Billy remembers reading this story. How circus elephants are trained. Chained on a pole when they’re young, and helpless, and impressionable. Stripped of their power. How they grow up thinking they can’t escape. It gets ingrained, that helplessness. The chain stays the same, and the elephant grows more and more powerful, but. 

They stay. Never try to escape. Never try to break the chain. They tried it when they were young, and it didn’t work, so. 

Acceptance is easier. _Giving in_ is easier. 

Neil’s more careful here, but. They both know. He doesn’t need to be. Billy’s learnt his lesson. 

Still. Billy likes _pushing_ , and Hawkins is safer, because everybody’s up in everybody’s business, so Neil has to be more careful, has to turn slaps and punches and hits to looks, to warnings, to locks on the wrong side of doors, so. 

Billy pushes. 

He fills his room with empty beer cans. Scatters cigarette filters all around. Keeps the magazines he’s supposed to get hard to in his bedside drawer. Pussies and tits and open legs with nothing dangling in between. 

Like father, like son. 

Neil doesn’t know, is the thing. 

Billy finds that—vastly ironic. 

Neil’s been beating f-and-a-and-g into Billy with punches and words long before Billy started kissing boys, and Billy’d been kissing boys long before he understood what that word meant, and Neil still doesn’t know, which is— 

It’s funny. 

It’s funny. Back in Cali, Billy wasn’t careful. He went to parties, and he went to the beach, and he kissed boys. He let boys touch him. He touched back. He came home every night and Neil _still_ never knew, even though he’d been calling Billy that name long before Billy’d found out boys’ lips taste different, better than girls’. 

So Billy figured, what the hell. Neil was already set on thinking stuff about his son. Might as well. 

He kept thinking about that the first time he got on his knees for some stranger outside a bar. Kept thinking, might as well. Just one more _fuck you, dad_. He took a cock in his mouth, and he let the stranger fuck his face, and he felt _alive_ , and. 

That’s when he knew. What that word meant. 

He’s in Hawkins, now. Neil’s more careful, but Billy has to be, too, and that’s—that’s another kind of ironic, right there. 

It’s November, and Billy’s been in Hawkins for three months, and he hasn’t kissed a boy for almost twice as that, and he’s never had to be careful before, but. No one in Neil’s house likes smooth peanut butter. 

There’s an open jar stashed away in Neil’s kitchen. Every time Billy opens the cabinet, the jar looks like it’s mocking him. 

He leaves the first place in his list empty. There’s only one good thing in Hawkins. 

He wishes he had something to be careful about. 

* * *

Neil learns Harrington’s name two months after Billy does. 

He doesn’t know why he’d thought he’d get away with it. Neil’s never let him get away with anything, ever. 

They just finished dinner. It’s a school night. Billy _knows_. He thought he could get away with it. 

He doesn’t. 

‘Billy.’ His name always sounds different, somehow, coming out of Neil’s mouth. Twisted. It’s paralyzing. Makes Billy wanna keep still. Makes him wanna dissolve into nothing. ‘Where do you think you’re going?’ 

He’s standing frozen in the middle of the hallway. Struck by lightning. ‘It’s still early.’ 

He’s pinned to the wall in seconds. Max and Susan are laughing at something in the living room. Nothing can save him. 

He clenches his jaw. 

‘That’s not what I asked, though, is it.’ It’s calm, Neil’s voice. Steady. It always is, right before the crash. Billy doesn’t know how he manages it, but. Neil’s had a lot of practice. ‘Billy. What did I ask?’ 

‘A friend invited me over, okay? I’ll be back before eleven. I know the rules.’ 

He can see Neil’s eyes scanning him. The state of his hair. His clothes. The way he smells. Billy—he’s not a rookie, okay. He’s already pushing it. Going over to Harrington’s is—the least careful thing he can do. He knows better than to fix his hair. Wear any of his fancy shirts. Douse himself in Aramis. Not before he passes Neil’s test. 

He’s got a bag of essentials in his car. No way he’s facing Harrington in _sweats_. 

Still. It works for Neil. 

He leaves Billy slumped against the wall. Reaches over to the telephone table. Grabs a notepad. A pen. ‘Write it down,’ he says. It’s not a question. It never is. ‘Your friend’s name. His phone number, too.’ 

_His_. It’s just a syllable. It hurts like a slap to the face. 

‘I don’t. Know his number, dad.’ He manages to keep his voice from trembling. Mostly. Small victories. ‘His name’s Harrington. Steve.’ 

Neil narrows his eyes. Billy hates Neil’s eyes. He hates how small they are. He doesn’t understand how it fits in there, all that hate. 

Neil’s eyes are blue. Just like Billy’s. Billy hates him for that, too. He can’t afford to hate the ocean, but Neil’s eyes are the kind of washed out blue. Ocean water mixed with sand and rocks. They’re always the last thing Billy sees before the hit. Billy hates them. 

Billy’s kind of blue is different. His eyes are big, the way he remembers his mother’s being, and his blue is deep, and free, and mixed with green and gold and amber, the way the ocean looks when you swim too far. Way past the buoys. Way past anyone else. 

He wishes his mom’d left him something more than just her shade of blue. 

‘Harrington?’ Billy hates how easy it rolls off Neil’s tongue. ‘The Harringtons who own half this town? That’s your friend?’ 

Billy’s usually good at spotting trick questions. He’s not sure, right now. ‘Uh. Yeah. Yeah, he’s. That’s him.’ 

‘Why would Harrington’s boy hang around with you?’ Neil doesn’t say it. Doesn’t need to. Billy knows. He’s been wondering the same thing. _A trash like you_. 

It hurts less, coming from Neil. That’s a victory, too. 

‘We’re playing for the same team,’ he bites out, and revels at the way Neil’s eyes widen at the double meaning. Lets himself have that, just for a second. ‘Basketball. That’s where we met. And he’s in a lot of my classes, too. He started talking to me.’ 

‘And he invited you to his house.’ 

Billy nods, careful. Neil’s temper is a minefield. Billy can never predict the right step. He’s starting to think maybe there isn’t one. Neil will explode, one way or another. You just gotta accept it. Wait for it. It’s easier. 

‘We got a game coming up. Big one. He wants to talk strategy.’ He’s pushed too much for a night, he thinks. He can give something back. A compromise. ‘Tommy Hagan’s gonna be there. He’s on the team, too. I’ll be back on time. I promise.’ 

Neil’s sizes him up. Billy can see the wheels turning. He’s trying his hardest to stay still. Not flinch. Not breathe. He thinks he’s lost. He’ll be sent to his room. The door will lock. From the wrong side. 

He hasn’t even done anything. There’s nothing to _do_. Billy fucking _wishes_ there was. 

Neil steps back after a moment. He nods towards the key bowl next to the door, like. _Go on_. 

Billy’s at the door in a flash. He needs to get out of here, fast. He’s not about to start questioning Neil’s magnanimity. Not when it means he gets to see Harrington. 

It’ll come back and bite him, that’s for sure. That much Billy’s learnt. 

He’s got a hand on the door handle, one foot already out the door, and he thinks maybe, maybe he got away with it— 

‘Billy.’ It’s November, and Billy’s finding out winters in Indiana are the soul-freezing kind, but. Neil’s voice is colder. He turns around, just enough to put Neil’s washed out blue in his vision. ‘You know the rules. Watch yourself.’ 

It’s a warning. Puts the blame on him. _It’s on you_. 

Billy wants to _laugh_. He wants to scream, and scream, and scream, and let the darkness of the woods devour him. 

He thinks, _I always do_. He thinks, _there’s no reason._ He thinks, _not with him._

He thinks, _I wish there was_. 

He says, ‘Yes sir. I will.’ 

He closes the door behind him. 

* * *

He parks the car three roads down from Harrington’s. This is new to him. Being careful when there’s no reason to. 

He changes into a pair of black jeans. Not like. His tightest, but. Tight enough. 

He feels fucking _ecstatic_. Only half of it is for getting away with being out late. For having his father’s blessing. 

The prospect of seeing Harrington, of being around him, it’s. It leaves Billy weak at the knees. Leaves him shaking. It’s the good kind. The kind you get after a hit has landed just right. 

He fixes his hair, too. Just in case. 

Tommy’s already baked when he opens the door for Billy. Slurs out a, ‘Hey, man.’ Smiles at Billy, kinda sluggishly, which is. It’s unnerving, is what it is. Tommy doesn’t ever smile at Billy. 

Tommy doesn’t really like him, Billy’s thinks. 

Well. 

Tommy’s fascinated by him. The way everyone in Hawkins High is. It annoys the living hell out of Tommy, that fascination. 

Harrington likes Billy, too. Isn’t quiet about it. At all. 

Billy figures that’s where the trouble is. 

He gets it. 

He’s only had the King’s attention for a couple of months, and he’d been hooked since day one. Can’t ever imagine a future without it. Doesn’t want to. 

He knows how it feels to have Harrington’s eyes on him now. The prospect of someday. Not having them anymore—it scares the living hell out of him. Miles more terrifying than anything Neil’s ever done to Billy. 

So. He gets it. Tommy’s thing. Billy’s the new, shining toy. Straight off the California coasts. Harrington’s hooked on _him_ now. Tommy’s old news. He resents Billy for that, Billy knows that. Resents himself for being drawn to Billy even more. 

Billy takes the first step into King Steve’s mansion. King Steve’s world. He’s not sure he believes in—anything, really but. That first step feels like. Meeting his destiny. 

It feels _right_. 

Tommy’s throwing him a loose smile, and that’s new, too. 

‘Started without me, didja Tommy-boy.’ He pats the guy on the arm, shrugging off his coat. The one he had to tap into his precious getting-the-fuck-away-from-Neil savings for. He’s in Hawkins now. Hawkins gets fucking _cold_. 

Billy kinda. He likes the coat. 

Tommy lets out a small huff, hazy and loose. ‘You’re late.’ He nods to his left, like, _shouldn’t leave the King waiting_ , so. 

Billy walks in. 

The house is big. Billy hadn’t realized _how_ big. It’s—it’s big. It’s got the highest fucking ceiling Billy’s ever seen in a place that wasn’t like. A mall, or a movie theater, or something. There are four couches, and a fireplace three times bigger than Neil’s, and a _pool table_ , and. 

There’s also— 

Billy walks towards it in a trance. He’s seen stuff like that in movies. Never in real life. 

It’s a cabinet. One of those with. The glass doors. More for display than keeping things safe. Filled with these little crystal animal figurines. They’re shining in a thousand different colors under the firelight. Billy counts three swans, a giraffe, birds he doesn’t know the name of. 

There are two little circus elephants in there, too. Dressed up. Costume and fringes and all. Billy stares at them. They stare back. 

There’s no chain. They don’t look like they’re trying to escape. 

‘I’d given up hope, man.’ Billy turns around to find Harrington sprawled on an armchair. There are four couches. Billy counted. Harrington’s gone for the armchair. His throne. ‘I thought you weren’t coming.’ 

There’s an edge to his voice. Something like a whine. Harrington sounds like he’s _whining_. Because Billy was late. When Billy turns around he finds Harrington staring at him, one corner of his mouth tilted up. Like he’s happy. 

Because Billy’s here. 

He thinks he can see Harrington’s face light up. It might be a trick of the light. He hopes it’s not. 

He fidgets with the hem of his shirt. Billy _never_ fidgets. It’s just. Harrington brings out this side of him. Fidgety. Nervous. On edge. ‘Yeah, I. Had to. Deal with some. Family issues,’ he mumbles. He realizes he kinda. Feels guilty. He feels the need to _apologize_. For making Harrington wait. For having such a lame excuse. 

_Huh_ , he thinks. _That’s new_. 

Harrington raises one eyebrow. Like he doesn’t believe a word coming out of Billy’s mouth. Like he’s willing to drop it. Move on. 

He’s not. Billy knows that much. Harrington’s just. Biding his time. Waiting until he’s got Billy open and bleeding to pounce. 

He gives Billy a once-over, and he licks his lips, leaves them all glowing and shining. Reflecting the fire. He gets up. Plants himself on one of the couches. Pats the space next to him. Inviting Billy. Like Billy ever had a choice. 

He never did. He sits down next to him. 

Harrington holds out his hand, passes Billy a half-burnt joint. Sends Billy’s pulse skyrocketing when their fingers meet. Billy thinks he’ll never get used to that. He hopes he won’t. 

‘I saved you the best,’ Harrington drawls, half arrogant, half amused. 

Billy takes a drag. 

‘Fuck.’ He lets his head fall back against the cushions, feels the smoke in his lungs. Lets it out. Watches as it swirls, higher and higher and higher. Maybe this ceiling doesn’t ever end, after all. Maybe it goes all the way up to the sky. ‘I needed that,’ he sighs around the cotton in his mouth. 

‘Don’t hog the good shit, asshole.’ Tommy appears out of nowhere. Steals the smoke right out of Billy’s hand, where his arms are spread over the back of the couch. Billy kinda—forgot he was there. Harrington is a whirlwind. Takes Billy’s mind for a spin. Doesn’t leave space for anything else. 

He grunts. Can’t be too annoyed, not when there’s smoke warming him up from the inside. Not when he’s sitting close to Harrington. 

‘What took you so long, anyway?’ 

_Fuck_. Tommy’s really testing his patience tonight. 

‘He was on babysitting duty, Tommy, let him live.’ Harrington steps in before Billy can bite out the _mind your own_ Tommy’s owed, and when Billy turns his head to the left he finds Harrington’s narrowed eyes on him, like maybe they’re sharing a joke Tommy’s not in on. 

‘Jeez, excuse me for asking.’ Tommy sounds kinda offended, but he’s also puffing out smoke, so. Billy thinks he’ll get over it. ‘Mind if I put on some music?’ 

There’s a beat of silence. They’re just. Awaiting the decree of the King. 

‘Let Billy choose.’ 

Billy doesn't need to be told twice. Doesn’t wait for Tommy’s scoff. _Let Billy choose_ , Harrington said, so. Billy chooses. 

He skims through the LPs. He doesn’t know what he’s looking for, but. 

He finds it. Puts the record on. Hears the needle clicking in. Waits for it. The first cords. 

He sits back down next to Harrington, and he closes his eyes, and he lets the music wash over him. 

_well I tried to make it sunday, but I got so damn depressed,_

Harrington huffs out a laugh. ‘Really?’ 

Billy doesn’t even try to hide the grin spreading over his lips. ‘What? Not your style?’ 

‘No. _No_ , it’s just—not what I thought you’d go for. You keep surprising me.’ Harrington hums to himself. Reaches out a finger to poke Billy between the brows. ‘I never know what’s going on in here,’ he breathes, almost like a secret. ‘But no. No, I like it.’ 

Billy stays still. Feels Harrington’s finger pressing into his skin. He lets himself get lost in the music. In that one single point of contact. 

_will you love me just a little, just enough to show you care?_

‘My mom used to listen to this,’ he breathes out, and his eyes sting when he opens them again. 

It’s an offering. An opening. Harrington charges. 

‘ _Used to_? Not anymore?’ 

Billy shrugs. ‘Wouldn’t know.’ 

‘You lost me,’ Harrington says around a frown. ‘Isn’t she—’ 

‘She’s not around. Hasn’t been for a while.’ Billy’s distantly aware Tommy’s probably on the edge of his seat, waiting for a whiff of Billy’s blood, but. He kinda. Doesn’t give a fuck. 

‘Huh.’ Harrington looks like he just had an epiphany. ‘How come?’ 

Billy tries to remember how to breathe. In. Out. In. Out. In— 

‘My dad’s got a short fuse. He thought she was being unfaithful. They fought a lot, so. She left,’ he says. He doesn’t say _Neil slapped her around for years_. He doesn’t say _a month before she left, Neil pushed her down a flight of stairs_. He doesn’t say _it’s gotten worse without her_. 

He doesn’t say _I took her place_. 

‘Was she?’ 

Billy blinks himself back to here, now. Sitting next to Harrington. The smell of weed all around them. Tommy lying on the couch across them. ‘Huh?’ 

‘Unfaithful. To him,’ Harrington says. ‘Was she?’ 

Billy thinks about her. How she laughed. How she used to lift him up, swirl them all around the apartment while Neil was at work. Golden sunshine hair flying in the air, mixing with his own. How she used to scream, used to make him scream, too, at the top of their lungs. 

_and I just can’t live without you, can’t you see it in my eyes?_

‘She had—a different view of life,’ he says, and his voice sounds shaky. His throat burns like he swallowed liquid fire. ‘She saw things differently. I guess that’s a way of being unfaithful too.’ 

There’s something open, and raw, and ravenous all over Harrington’s face when Billy lets his eyes drift back to him. Like he _sees_ Billy. Like he got more than he bargained for. Like he wants _more_. 

Billy—he wants. Wants to give him more. Wants to give, and give, and give. Until there’s nothing left. Until he’s hollow, and empty, and free. 

‘’m so fuckin’ thirsty,’ he says. He can’t have what he wants. He’ll settle for a glass of water. 

‘Oh. Here.’ Harrington stretches out an arm, reaches for the glass on the coffee table. _His_ glass. Takes a sip. Gulps it down. Then he’s passing it to Billy. 

Billy—stares. At Harrington’s outstretched hand. At his fingers wrapped around the glass. The water sloshing around inside. 

He has no idea what’s happening. Isn’t entirely sure he’s not dreaming about Harrington. Again. 

‘Uh, I can go bring you a glass. If you want,’ Tommy says. He sounds so—far away. 

Harrington motions him to stop. Stop talking. Stop moving. Just—stop. Tommy does. 

‘Nah, we’re good. Billy can drink from mine. Right?’ His eyes never leave Billy’s. There’s a question there. Hunger, too. Like he’s wondering. If he’s pushing it too far. Like it wouldn’t matter if he is anyway. 

Billy takes the glass. They’ve shared a lot of things. Food. Smokes. Joints. This is just. One more test. One more game. 

Billy’s—not sure who’s winning. 

He takes the glass. Brings it to his lips. Thinks about Harrington’s lips pressed to the same spot. Starts gulping the water down. Doesn’t look at the glass. Keeps looking at Harrington. The way his eyes zero in on Billy’s lips. On his throat, moving with every swallow. 

Harrington’s eyes go dark. Two black holes. Sucking Billy in. Matter disintegrating into nothing. 

Billy keeps drinking, until there’s no more water left. 

Harrington’s in him now. He won. Maybe Billy won too. 

He lets Harrington take the glass from his hands, set it back down on the table. Nods, twice, kinda dizzy, when Harrington tilts his head, pins Billy with a dark look, asks, ‘All better?’ 

Harrington smiles all sweetly at him. Billy—doesn’t think he deserves that. He just. Drank some water, but Harrington is looking at him like he’s _proud_. It was one more test. Billy passed again. When Harrington rests a hand on Billy’s knee, it. It feels like a treat. _Good boy_. _Sit_. _Roll over_. _Drink the water_. 

Billy isn’t barking. He’s not biting, either. 

He can hear the fire crackling behind him. Feels Tommy’s eyes on them, on Harrington’s hand on his knee. The grandfather clock right next to the throne Harrington gave up strikes one, two. Gets up to eleven. Billy keeps count. 

He promised. He said _I know the rules_. 

It’s just. Harrington’s hand is still on Billy’s knee, and Billy thinks maybe, maybe Harrington’s name is a free pass. Maybe he can get away with it, maybe he can stay— 

Harrington sits up. Stretches. Makes a big show of it. Yawning, spreading his arms. Billy looks at him, hypnotized. 

‘Tommy?’ Harrington waits for Tommy to focus on him. ‘It’s pretty late.’ 

It’s not. Ten past eleven is. Not even remotely close to late. Not for them. Not for Harrington. 

Tommy tries. He really does. Billy’s gotta give that to him. ‘It’s only—’ 

‘Tommy. It’s late,’ Harrington says again. Slowly. Patiently. ‘I’m kinda tired.’ 

Billy knows his cue when he hears it. Harrington’s putting on a show. For him. He keeps— _doing_ that. Billy doesn’t wanna think why. He likes it. 

He _likes_ it. 

‘I gotta go,’ he says, standing up. Kinda makes it sound like an apology. Isn’t sure it’s only meant for Harrington, either. ‘Tommy. You comin’ or what?’ 

Tommy stares at him. It stretches out a second too long, and then Harrington’s like, ‘I’ll walk you guys out,’ and, ‘See you at school,’ and, ‘God, Tommy, I can smell your high from here, man, good thing your house is like, right down the street,’ so. 

Tommy scrambles to get up, get his coat, get the hell out of Harrington’s living room. 

Billy’d be enjoying the whole thing, really, except it’s almost half past, and Billy promised, and Tommy lives like, _right_ _down the street_ , and Billy hateshates _hates_ the spike of jealousy that shoots through him, thinking about how Tommy lives right down the street. Right down the street from _Harrington_. 

He bundles himself up in his coat. The coat he bought, with his own money. His own getaway fund. Walks to the door. Keeps his eyes away from the two elephants. He knows they’re still there. Not chained. Still there. 

They walk down the driveway side by side. He and Tommy. They’re both quiet. Not really acknowledging one another. They both flinch, just a bit, the moment Harrington closes his front door. They don’t talk about it. 

Billy’s a step away from the Camaro, and he has to be home like. An hour ago, but. 

‘Hargrove?’ Tommy looks at him, and there’s something sad in it. Almost like pity. Almost. ‘It’s not gonna work. I’m just telling you.’ 

Billy kinda. He blinks at him. He’s still kinda buzzed from the weed and the fireplace and Harrington’s hand on him. Billy’s a punch first, ask questions later kinda guy, but Tommy’s Harrington’s pet, and you don’t mess with what belongs to the King, even though Tommy’s saying— 

Before Billy can decide if he’s willing to take the risk and find out if blood looks good on freckles, Tommy claps him on the shoulder, mutters out a _night, man_ , and he’s off, down the street, where he fucking _lives_. Next to Harrington. 

Billy gets in his car. 

He spends the whole ride home replaying Tommy’s words in a loop. _Not gonna work, not gonna work, not gonna work_ — 

The house is dark when he gets back. There’s a small victory in that, too. Maybe Billy’ll get a few hours of peace before tomorrow’s reckoning. 

He gets out of the car. 

He’ll make it work. 


	2. Chapter 2

Hawkins is a small town in all the ways that matter. People are bored. 

People Billy’s age are bored to _death_. 

They find ways to fight that. The urge to fling themselves off the nearest cliff. They drink, a lot. Go to parties. Parties that ain’t got nothing on what Billy’s used to, but. 

Not in Kansas anymore, and all that. 

They fuck, too. A lot. They call it the curse of the small town. Billy doesn’t think it’s the worst thing in the world. And he’s kinda eager to fit in, so. 

He sleeps around. A lot. 

It’s so much easier to find eager pussy in Hawkins than it ever was back in Cali. Not that pussy was ever the goal, not back there, but. People here are desperate, and Billy’s the new, shining toy, so. 

He’s not about to say no to girls throwing themselves at him. 

It works in his favor on many levels. Helps build this reputation, this image. Ladies’ man. Out of reach. Helps preserve the mystery around him. 

Works as a distraction, too. That’s what Billy tells himself. Keeps him from thinking about. About stuff. 

Except it doesn’t. 

He’s buried deep inside Jessica, or Hannah, or Tara, or whatever the fuck her name is, and he thinks _this is it, this is the moment I stop thinking about him_ , and he tries, he does, but. 

Harrington’s a whore, like. That’s just something everyone in Hawkins High agrees on. Billy’s been in Hawkins for a little over four months. Christmas lights are flickering all over the town, and he’s still to meet a girl Harrington hasn’t been with. In. 

It’s some type of exhilarating, getting Harrington’s sloppy seconds. Gets Billy harder than any girl opening his legs for him. That thought. Taking what Harrington’s already thrown away. 

It gets Billy going. 

He’s like. Pretty sure her name is Jessica. 

She moans in his ear. Billy kinda. Forgot she was there. Too busy thinking about Harrington. He thinks maybe they have that in common. Maybe Jessica’s thinking about Harrington, too. 

She clenches around him. Billy’s already fucked two out of her. He can feel her warm breath on his chin, the way she pants against his jaw. She’s getting to the third, Billy can tell, even with her face buried in his chest. 

He makes a point of never taking them from behind. It’s like. Something to prove to himself. Makes it harder to detach himself from the moment. Keeps him tethered to here, now, a girl between his legs, soft noises and round tits and long hair and everything Billy hates. Everything Billy can’t ignore. Can’t transform. 

It’s some type of penance. 

He thrusts inside her. ‘You like that, sweetheart?’ Girls go crazy over that kind of shit. _Sweetheart_. _Babygirl_. Works for Billy. Works even better when he can’t remember her name to save his life. 

She sighs his name, and it sounds all kinds of wrong coming out of her mouth. Harrington never calls him _Billy_. He says _Hargrove_ , and _California_ , and _heartbreaker_. He doesn’t say _Billy_. 

No one else should be allowed to say it either. 

He hikes her legs up his shoulders. The dresser underneath them creaks, hitting the wall with every thrust. Perfume bottles and lipstick tubes rattle and roll before falling to the floor. It’s a mess. 

Billy can’t stop thinking about him. 

The music’s blaring downstairs. He can feel the vibrations all over his body. Tries to match his rhythm to the _thump-thump-thump_ of the speakers. Turn it into a game. 

Harrington’s probably in the other bedroom. Fucking the girl he was eyeing before. She was more Billy’s type than Jessica, or Hannah or whatever. Clipped brown hair. Would’ve made it easier to lose himself in it. Jessica’s a red. Long and curly and fiery and everything Harrington’s not. Billy tries to tune it out. Doesn’t work. 

It’s just. Billy could see where it was going from miles away, with her and Harrington, and Jessica, or Hannah, or whatever the fuck her name is, was already on his lap, three seconds away from begging, and Billy would very literally disintegrate into nothing if she actually did, would only take begging from the one person that wouldn’t beg, not ever, so. 

Jessica it is. 

He catches his eye in the mirror. He looks. Bloodthirsty. 

He looks broken. 

He thinks about Harrington pushing into her. The same way Billy is right now. Pushing and groaning and— 

He doesn’t remember her name. He doesn’t need to. It’s not the one he bites back when he spills into the condom. 

Thank fuck for the music. Loud enough to keep the neighbors up all night. Loud enough to drown thoughts, and sounds, and names. 

She must’ve come with him, because Billy can feel her body slumped, heaving. She’s liquid under his touch. He holds her. Breathes with her. He owes that to her, at least. 

He pulls back enough to look at her. She looks back, eyes glassy, gone. 

‘You alright?’ 

He waits for her to nod weakly before he pulls out. Going through the motions. Wrapping the condom. Tossing it in the bin. Wiping himself on a tissue. That part’s familiar. No matter what’s between anyone’s legs. 

She’s already fixing her dress in the mirror when he turns to face her. She’s. She’s pretty. Carries an air of freedom around her. 

Billy wishes he could want her. 

‘’m going downstairs,’ he mumbles. He’s not sure she heard him. He doesn’t stick around long enough to find out. 

Harrington’s right outside the door when he walks out. Doesn’t look like he just came out of the room next door. He almost looks like. He was standing there. Right outside the door. 

Billy hopes he didn’t hear them. He hopes he did. 

He’s losing his mind. 

They’re facing each other in the middle of the hallway. Billy doesn’t know what to say. If he’s allowed to say anything. He busies himself with fixing his clothes, instead. Starts tucking his shirt back in his pants with shaky hands. Performance anxiety. 

He wasn’t nervous when Jessica took his hand, led him to the bedroom. He’s nervous now. Fixing his clothes in front of Harrington. Thinking about Harrington standing right here, right outside the door. While Jessica’s red hair bounced all around Billy. 

Harrington’s just. Staring at him. Something smug on his lips, while Billy puts himself back together, best as he can. ‘Had fun?’ 

Billy rolls his eyes. ‘You know she’s a good fuck, asshole.’ 

Harrington huffs. Gnaws at the inside of his mouth. Keeps staring. Smug. Cocky. Regal. 

He reaches out. His fingers find the buttons on Billy’s shirt. He undoes the top. Then the next one. And the next one. Leaves Billy half naked all over again. The back of his knuckles brush against Billy’s pecs. 

Billy shudders. He came four minutes ago. He’s never been more thankful for anything in his life. 

Harrington pats his chest, right above the heart. ‘There,’ he says around a smile. ‘All better.’ 

He turns around. Walks away before Billy has the chance to. Talk. Scream. Breathe. Anything. 

The music was deafening moments ago. The only thing Billy can hear now is his heartbeat. 

He follows his plan. Goes downstairs. 

He doesn’t button his shirt back up. 

* * *

Billy’s taken to stuffing cotton balls between the hinges of his window. Muffles out the noise of coming home late. Neil hasn’t caught on to that trick. Yet. 

Everything’s still in the house. Silent. His heartbeat hasn’t stopped thumping in his ears. It beats to the sound of Harrington’s voice. _All better_. _All better_. 

He squirms out of his clothes. All it took was one touch. One brush of Harrington’s skin against his own. Got Billy harder than being inside a warm pussy ever could. 

He lies down. He’s already panting. Heavy. Unsteady. He fumbles under the bed for the pillow he keeps there. Shoves it between his legs. He starts moving. Fast. Uncoordinated. Too worked up to care about build up. 

He brings a hand to his chest. Traces a nipple with his fingers. Keeps the touch light. The way Harrington kept his. He thinks about Harrington’s fingers on his skin. How good they felt. How good they’d feel. Right there. 

He snaps his hips. His boxers are soaked. It seeps through the fabric. The pillow’s a mess by now. He wonders if Harrington ever does this. If he keeps a pillow under his bed. If he thinks of Billy. 

He grunts into his fist. Bites down on his knuckles when he comes. He makes a mess. Stars explode behind his eyelids. 

_All better_. 

* * *

Billy’s second New Year’s kiss is Carol. His first is Tommy. 

He’s warming up to him, he finds out. Tommy’s fun to be around. He knows what it feels like, wearing a leash with Harrington’s name on. 

The skin around his left eye is still kinda yellow from when it met with Neil’s fist after Christmas dinner. Billy got Max a new pair of wheels for her board. Neil didn’t approve, and school’s out, so. 

Harrington’s been eyeing him all night. Billy knows he’s sharp. It’s not as bad as it used to be, because this is Hawkins, and Neil needs to behave, but Billy’s had to hide his fair share of blues and purples on his skin over the past few months, and. Harrington’s been paying attention. He knows Billy’s not been getting into fights. He’s connecting the pieces. 

Billy kinda. Wants him to. 

The ball drops. Last time he spotted Harrington was half an hour ago, one girl under each arm, so. When Tommy wraps an arm around his shoulder, shouts, ‘C’mere, man,’ right into Billy’s ear, Billy just. Goes. 

Tommy grabs his face. Plants one on him. Just like that. He tastes like too much rum, and there’s lipstick all over his mouth, because Tommy spent the whole night ruining Carol’s makeup, and Billy had to witness every second of it, and it’s not like that with Tommy, not at all, but. 

It’s nice. Billy hasn’t kissed a boy in months. It’s nice. 

Tommy pulls back, grinning like the world’s gonna end. Billy ruffles his hair a bit, laughs out a _Happy New Year, dumbass_ , moves on to Carol, who’s been making grabby hands at them this whole time. 

It’s nice. It’s been a while since Billy called anybody his friend. He thinks he may have two now. 

‘Happy New Year, doll,’ Carol drawls out, and she winks at him, and Billy decides he really likes her. 

He leaves one more kiss on her cheek before pulling back. Lets her orbit back into Tommy’s space. Tommy just. Raises his arm, and she slides under there, and it looks so easy, in a way Billy’s never known. Probably never will. 

He forces himself to look away. His eyes land on Harrington across the room. Find him already looking. He’s not surrounded by his fans anymore. 

Harrington nods towards the back door. Doesn’t wait to see if Billy follows. 

Billy does. 

Harrington’s already got two cigarettes in his mouth when Billy finds him. He lights them both. Passes one to Billy, wordlessly. They’ve done this so many times. It’s natural. Not—not _easy_ , but. Close enough. 

It’s freezing. Billy’s wearing his coat. Harrington isn’t. His breath comes out in puffs of white. He doesn’t give away any sign he’s bothered by the literal fucking glacial landscape, the haughty asshole. 

Billy wraps his arms around himself. He’s never felt cold like this before. 

Harrington’s points the cherry towards Billy’s face. At the yellow blooming under his eye. ‘Dig your Christmas present.’ 

Billy winces. ‘Yeah, I. Got in—’ 

‘—a fight. I know.’ Harrington’s voice is flat, but. There’s something sharp at the end of it. He takes a step closer. Takes one more. Makes Billy walk backwards, until his back finds the trunk of a tree. ‘So what’s your New Year’s resolution, Hargrove? How about getting into less fights?’ 

Billy stammers out half an answer. Well. Tries to. 

Harrington presses closer. Cages Billy against the tree. He grips Billy’s jaw in one hand. Turns his face to the side, where Billy’s skin is taut, and bruised, and tender. Rakes his eyes over the damage. There’s fire in them. His voice is seething with fury. ‘How about punching the asshole who did this?’ 

Billy can’t really. Open his mouth, not with the way Harrington’s holding him. Can’t really think. Harrington’s so close. Billy faintly registers the way his body goes pliant for him. He thinks he should be afraid. Knows he would be, if he was staring into washed out blue. 

He’s not afraid now. 

Harrington tightens his hold. He’s running out of patience. 

Billy snarls at him. Snarls like a cornered dog. ‘What if I deserved it?’ 

Harrington’s expression shatters. The grip on Billy’s jaw turns softer. His lips part. No sound comes out. 

They’re so close. Both panting like they’re being chased. Like they just got caught. Chests almost touching with every heaving breath. 

Billy’s not afraid. 

‘You didn’t,’ Harrington breathes. He lowers his eyes to Billy’s lips. The tip of his thumb traces the edge of Billy’s lip. Harrington stares, mouth half-open. ‘You don’t.’ 

He blinks. Clears his throat. His hand falls from Billy’s face. He takes a step back, putting some space between them. 

Billy feels the loss like a punch in the gut. It hurts. He’s cold. He needs— he needs Harrington back. 

‘You don’t,’ Harrington repeats, and then, ‘C’mon, man. ‘s fuckin freezing out here. Let’s go back inside,’ and disappears back into the house. 

Billy stays still for a second. Just. Closes his eyes, and breathes, and then. He follows. 

He follows. 

* * *

He’s been staring at the ceiling for the last hour. There’s a crack, right above the door. Billy kinda wants to laugh. Kinda wants to scream. 

The green numbers on the clock look like they’re mocking him. 1:34. Everytime the little dots blink, the mattress swallows him deeper. 

He thinks he’s dreaming, when he hears a thump on his window. He ignores it for like. Three seconds. Then there’s another one. Of course there’s another one. 

He’s been trying to sleep. Doesn’t think about putting anything on when he gets up to check. 

He’s definitely dreaming. 

Harrington’s outside his window. He’s wearing his red sweater, the one that makes Billy’s throat go tight with how much he. He wants. He’s not wearing anything else. In the middle of fucking January. 

Harrington’s outside his window, and he’s smiling, and Billy’s in his briefs. 

Harrington motions for him to unlatch the window, and Billy does, and Harrington. He just. Climbs in. Into Billy’s room. Still smiling. 

Billy steps back, puts as much space between them as he can. Walks until the back of his legs hit the desk. He leans on it. The cold surface keeps him grounded. It’s easy to pretend it’s the cold that’s making the hair on his legs stand up. 

Harrington crosses his arms. Gives Billy a once-over. Slow, like they’ve got all the time in the world. They have to be up for school in. Less than six hours. 

‘Not that I don’t appreciate the view, California, but. You should probably put something on. Don’t want your rookie ass freezing out there. It’s a nice ass,’ Harrington says. Throws in a wink. Because Billy isn’t already five seconds away from a heart attack as it is. 

‘You’re not supposed to be here.’ Billy sways a bit on his feet. Clutches the edge of the desk to keep himself from. Falling, probably. He should be panicking. Neil’s sleeping two rooms away. This is a dream. ‘Harrington. You can’t be here.’ 

‘I’m not,’ Harrington croons, like Billy’s really asleep. Like he’s singing him a lullaby. _Hush_ , _little baby_. ‘I’m just here to pick you up, heartbreaker. That way _you_ won’t be here, either.’ 

Billy decides he’s not dreaming. Dream Harrington would never say cryptic shit like that. Billy’d be blowing him by now. This can’t be a dream. 

‘I’m sleeping,’ he whispers. 

Harrington scoffs. Starts walking closer. Billy doesn’t have any more room to run to. He’s done for. ‘No, you’re not. C’mon.’ Harrington’s hand lands on Billy’s shoulder. His thumb presses into the hollow spot above Billy’s clavicle, just for a second. Then it’s gone. 

Harrington digs through the clothes strewn over Billy’s floor. Picks up a hoodie. Picks up a pair of shorts. ‘Here,’ throws them at Billy, ‘wear these.’ 

Billy eyes the shorts. ‘It’s thirty degrees outside.’ 

Harrington is halfway out the window. He throws a smile over his shoulder. It’s full of promise. Billy doesn’t stand a chance. ‘We’ll get you warmed up. C’mon.’ 

* * *

Billy’s never been in Harrington’s car before. He’s never been alone with him like that, either. It feels dangerously intimate, when he slides in the passenger seat, and Harrington closes the door behind him. 

Billy’s wearing the clothes Harrington picked out for him. No one’s awake. The streets are black holes, swallowing them on every turn. This is a dream. Nothing else exists. 

Harrington drives them to his house. His very dark, very silent house. He lets out a soft breath at Billy’s raised eyebrow, says, ‘’s just you and me, heartbreaker. Don’t worry about it.’ He’s walking round the car and getting the door for Billy before Billy can blink. Before he can panic. 

_Just you and me_. 

Harrington walks them through his house. His mansion. His very dark, very silent mansion. Leads them to the backyard. There are woods all around them. Only a wooden fence to keep them safe. Keeps the trees out. Can’t keep their shadows from spilling in. 

‘Grab that ball, will you?’ Harrington points to a spot in the darkness, doesn’t wait for Billy to follow the instructions. Yanks his sweater over his head. He’s left with a t-shirt. 

Harrington’s left with a t-shirt, and the darkness can’t hold a candle to his eyes, and the moonlight shines on his skin, and Billy hopes he’s dreaming. 

He grabs the ball. Keeps rolling it in his hands when he breaks the silence. ‘What are we doing here, King Steve?’ 

‘What do you think we’re doing here, California?’ Harrington is so close. His hands reach out. Grab the ball Billy’s holding on to like a lifeline. Their fingers are touching, almost. Almost. 

They’ve got a game tomorrow. They could both use the practice. The world is quiet around them. 

Harrington picked Billy up. Brought him to his place. 

He brought him to his place, and he’s standing close. Close. So close. He laughs, when he tries to steal the ball and Billy doesn’t budge. He _laughs_. 

Billy’s never been on a date with a boy. Maybe this can count as the first. 

He yanks the ball out of Harrington’s grasp. Starts running. 

He runs. 

* * *

They’re both soaked by the time they have to stop to catch their breaths. Billy’s burning up from the inside. He inhales, and his lungs sting something bad with every mouthful of cold. 

Harrington’s good. Like. Really good. Can run for hours without falling behind. 

Billy’s giving him a run for his money. He can’t go for long, but he knows how to push. Knows when to be aggressive. And Harrington seems to get a kick out of that, so. 

Billy thinks their first date is going well. 

No one else loves it when Billy pushes. No one else pushes back. 

Harrington—he’s a dream. 

Billy hasn’t felt another boy’s skin against his in months. His body is wound up, a spring coiled tight. Every time their bodies meet, Billy’s one step closer to shattering. Letting go. Consequences be damned. He’s one brush of palms away from not giving a fuck. 

He’s thankful for the loose shorts. It’s not. Uncommon, he thinks, rubbing against a boy. Being _affected_ , but. He’s learning how to be careful, for the first time. Different rules apply to people like him. People who have something to be careful about. Even if Billy doesn’t, not with Harrington. 

He’s not willing to risk it. 

Harrington wipes his forehead on his discarded sweater. Steps in the kitchen for a second. Comes back with two bottles of Gatorade. Throws one at Billy, and he doesn’t even look. If Billy catches it. They’ve been practicing moving in sync for two hours now. Maybe even more. Maybe they’ve been practicing since September. Harrington knows Billy’ll catch whatever he throws at him. 

Billy catches it. 

It’s the orange kind. Billy hates the orange kind. Tastes like rubber. Goes down like Styrofoam. 

He gulps down half the bottle. 

Harrington lies down. Right there on the concrete. In the middle of fucking January. Billy lies next to him. When Harrington pillows his head on his hands, his elbow brushes Billy’s hair. 

‘We’re good together,’ Harrington says to the darkness above. Not a question. Matter of fact. He turns to Billy, a smile sweet enough to make Billy want to do something reckless. Something stupid. ‘I’m telling you, heartbreaker. We’re gonna be unstoppable.’ 

Billy wants to ask. If he means tomorrow. If he means just for the game. 

Wants to ask if he means forever. 

He’s never wanted anyone to mean forever before. 

He chuckles. ‘We’ll slay ‘em dead, King Steve. I swear to whatever fuckin’ cow god you hicks hold holy out here. They won’t see us comin’.’ 

Harrington hums. He’s silent long enough that Billy feels safe, almost to give in. Steal a glance. Harrington’s staring at the blanket of stars, one hand behind his head. One hand creeping lower. Where his sweatpants are tight. Tighter than they have to be. 

Billy sucks in a breath. He draws his eyes away so fast his vision goes blurry around the edges. Stares straight ahead. Stays still. Silent. Careful. 

‘What about Allie?’ 

Harrington’s voice sounds scratchy. Like maybe Billy isn’t the only one the cold’s getting to. Billy can’t see his face. He’s not allowed to. There are _rules_. Billy’s being careful. He chokes out, ‘What?’ 

‘Allie,’ Harrington drawls, each letter rolling out of his mouth slow, syrupy. ‘Is Allie Easton a hick, too?’ 

When Billy finally looks at him, he finds Harrington staring right back. Head tilted to the side. Eyes dark as the night around them. One hand rubbing at the front of his pants. Where the fabric is stretched. Harrington’s looking at him. 

‘You fucked her, right?’ 

Billy swallows. Musters every ounce of control he has. To keep his eyes on Harrington’s. Not stray. Not break the rules. 

He nods. 

Harrington hums around a smile. ‘Tell me about it,’ he says, fingers kneading between his legs. ‘Tell me how you fucked her, heartbreaker.’ 

He’s not asking. Billy’s had a lifetime’s worth of punches on his shoulders. The moan Harrington breathes next to him is what bowls him over. 

Maybe it doesn’t matter, if Harrington’s breaking the rules first. Maybe Billy doesn’t give a fuck anyway. 

‘She’s a screamer,’ he says, and he knows he’s doing something right, because Harrington grunts like Billy scored a knockout. ‘Comes a lot, too. Made her come like. Three times before I got in her.’ 

Harrington breathes out a _fuck_. Keeps rubbing himself through the fabric. He’s all the way there, now. Hard. Like maybe his hand, or maybe. Maybe Billy’s voice got him there. 

Billy is floating. Harrington’s hard and panting next to him. Harrington’s hard and panting because of him. 

He thinks he’s dreaming. He hopes he’s not. 

He’s throbbing in his shorts. No fighting it, now. No hiding it, either. He figures maybe he doesn’t need to. Not when Harrington’s rubbing his dick next to him. Because of him. 

‘Keep goin’,’ Harrington whispers, and Billy shoves his hand in his pants, squeezes around the base to keep himself from shooting then and there. Harrington sounds so close. He sounds wrecked. Billy’s fighting a losing battle. 

‘Spent an hour lickin’ her open first,’ he says, pulse thumping in his ears. Thumping between his legs. To the rhythm of Harrington’s breathing next to him. ‘Fingered her, too. Bitch was so tight around me, King Steve. Sucked me in like quicksand. Sweetest pussy I’ve had in a while.’ 

The air is foggy around them, now. Heavy, with the way Harrington’s raising his hips, humping against the flat of his palm. Sucking in lungfuls of air. He’s taking up all the oxygen. Billy’s head is spinning. 

‘Don’t stop, heartbreaker,’ Harrington bites around a moan, ‘’m so close.’ 

Billy starts stroking himself. No turning back now. ‘She rode me in the back of my car. Kept bouncing on my dick like it was a fuckin’ pogo stick.’ He thumbs at his slit. Wishes there was another hand wrapped around him. It’s not Allie Easton that flashes through his mind. ‘She let me come all over her tits, that fuckin’ whore.’ 

Harrington lets out a groan. Loud. Drawn out. It echoes through the silence. He’s right there now, Billy can tell. He’s right there, hand moving desperately over his length, and Billy can’t look away, doesn’t ever want to, and. 

Harrington’s arm flies out. Latches onto Billy’s thigh. Nails sinking into the meat there. He comes. Just like that. Back bent, suspended over the ground. Head thrown back. Mouth locked open in a silent scream. 

He comes like that. Holding on to Billy like a lifeline. 

Billy hits the peak so fast he blacks out. He spills in his shorts. Wetness seeping through green nylon. Harrington’s touch setting his blood on fire. His hand the only thing keeping Billy from floating away. 

The first thing he sees when he comes back to himself is black. Harrington’s on his side. Towering over Billy, almost. His hand is still rubbing circles on Billy’s leg. Thumb climbing. Higher, and higher, playing with the hair on the inside of his thigh. He doesn’t look like he’s planning to move away anytime soon. 

‘You’re shaking, heartbreaker.’ Harrington’s voice has a different ring to it, now. Now that Billy knows what it sounds like when Harrington moans, and grunts, and falls apart. 

It’s different now. They broke the rules. No turning back. 

Billy sits up. 

He sits up. He sits away. He needs the distance. Needs it to breathe. Every exhalation stirs up a blizzard in his lungs. ‘’s cold,’ he manages through gritted teeth. 

He stands up. Winces at the dampness between his legs. He hasn’t done that in a while. Come in his pants. Come with a boy next to him. Come up feeling dirty, and guilty, and wrong. 

Harrington’s right. He _is_ shivering. Only half of it is ‘cause of the cold. The other half is still on the ground, watching Billy. Eyes glinting. Victorious. _I won. I solved it. I see you now_. 

Billy feels sick. 

He zips up his jacket. As far up as he can. Like that can fix everything they broke. It’s the illusion of control. The jacket won’t help him hide anything anymore. 

He zips it up anyway. ‘Gotta go home,’ he mutters into the darkness. Watches as the white cloud of his breath dissolves into the air. He wishes he would, too. 

‘Yeah,’ Harrington stands up, tufts of hair sticking all over the place. He passes a hand through them. The hand that was buried in Billy’s thigh a moment ago. Billy still has five half-moons etched on his skin to prove it. Harrington’s smiling like he knows. ‘Yeah, c’mon. Let’s get you home, heartbreaker.’ 

* * *

He wakes up the next day, and everything is wrong. 

His throat stings with every breath. His skin feels clammy, and sticky, and _wrong_. The clock is blinking 6:37 back at him, and that’s seven minutes too late. 

Neil’s already in the kitchen. Sipping at his coffee. Hidden behind today’s newspaper. Billy has no fucking clue why a town like Hawkins would even need a newspaper. Nothing happens in Hawkins. Nothing to write about, anyway. A kid being slapped around by his asshole father. Big fuckin’ deal. 

‘Morning, dad,’ he rasps. Every word scratches at his insides. More so than _morning, dad_ usually does. Doesn’t hurt as much when he ruffles Max’s hair, mumbles, ‘Hey, kid,’ huffs a breath at her annoyed, ‘Back atcha, bonehead.’ 

Billy really likes that kid. 

Neil clears his throat. Never a good sign. ‘What time’s the game today?’ 

Not _good morning, son_. Not _sleep well?_ Neil just. Goes for the throat. 

‘Uh. Half-past six, I think.’ 

Neil raises one eyebrow. ‘At least you’re well-rested.’ He folds his newspaper, right in the middle. Then again, into perfect quarters. ‘You any good?’ 

Billy’s so tired. His head is swimming, thoughts sloshing around inside like a magic 8 ball. He just. Has to find the right answer. 

He’s not sure if Neil means him or the team. He’d put good money on the first. ‘We’ve been practicing for weeks,’ he says. Manages to keep his voice steady. Detached. ‘We’re ready.’ 

‘Make sure you have your sister home before it starts.’ There are small droplets of coffee and cream on Neil’s mustache. Billy focuses on that. 

It’s a struggle. Keeping his eyes open. Being on the alert is kinda. Life and death around Neil, Billy knows that, but. He’s just. So tired. 

‘I wanna go to the game, too. If that’s okay. All my friends are going.’ Max’s voice cuts through the haze. Billy’s a moment too late for his scheduled _yes, sir_. Max knows. She _knows_. ‘I’ll just stay at school until then, and like. Work on my assignments. Or something. Billy can bring me home when it’s over, right?’ 

Billy sends her a look. _Thank you_. _I’m sorry this is your life. I’m sorry I screw everything up. Thank you._ He’ll never say any of this out loud. At least like that. Maybe she knows. 

Neil looks between them for a second. Eyes sharp. Calculating. He wipes his mouth before standing up. No more coffee and cream there, not anymore. ‘Very well,’ he says. ‘might be good for you to be more involved in school activities. For the both of you.’ He fixes Billy with a heavy look. ‘Make sure your sister gets home safe. And early.’ 

Billy nods. Can’t believe he’s getting away with it so easy. He’s so drowsy. Every bone in his body is tingling. Aching with every move. 

‘Oh, and Billy?’ He snaps his head up, caught. Weak. Defenses lowered. Finds Neil halfway out the kitchen, a smile that looks all twisted on his lips. ‘I’ll try and be there, too.’ 

* * *

‘What the hell happened to you?’ 

Billy sighs. Blinks, a couple of times, to clear his head. He’s not gearing up to die on the side of an Indiana hick road. He absolutely—refuses to go that way. ‘Shut your trap, Maxine. ‘m not in the mood today.’ 

Max fucking. _Snorts_. ‘Yeah, no shit, asshole.’ Billy watches her from the corner of his eye. She’s biting her lip. Looking at him like he’s about to break into a million pieces. 

Billy thinks he might. 

‘It helps, right? If I stay for the game? Saves you a drive that way,’ she mutters under her breath. ‘I just thought. You look—’ 

They don’t hug. He and Max. They’re not that kind of family. They’re barely a family at all. Billy—he wishes he could. Hug her. 

He wishes he could keep her safe. 

‘It does. Help.’ He swallows around the tightness in his throat, makes himself believe it’s the cold he’s sporting. Can’t really use that excuse for the tightness in his chest, but. ‘Max. Thanks, alright? It helps. Thank you.’ 

He pulls up at the parking lot. Right on time. They don’t do emotional. Neither of them can afford that in their lives, so. 

Max frowns at him, and nods, once, decisive. Gets out of the car. She’s taken a couple of steps, and Billy’s already backing up, when she. She just. Turns around. Leans down, throws him a look through the window. Says, _g’luckt’day_ , all in one breath. Skates away before Billy can blink. 

Billy thinks he might shatter. 

* * *

He skips the first three periods. Needs a few hours of sleep. Neil’s already ready to go off, so. Billy figures attending mrs. Wabler’s American History won’t be his saving grace. 

He burns through almost the whole tank to keep the car boiling. Goes through circles. Shivering from cold to shivering from heat a few times. Better now than before the game. 

He skips lunch, too. He doesn’t sleep. He just. Can’t face Harrington. Not right now. Not when he knows what he sounds like when he falls apart. 

He manages to avoid him the whole day, which is. They haven’t spent a whole school day apart since September. The thought hits Billy like one of Neil’s gut punches. Outta nowhere. Leaves him dizzy. Ready to faint. 

Harrington catches him in the locker room. Three minutes before the game. Billy’s already sweated through his jersey. A-W-K-I a pool of black against grey. The tiger is soaked, too. 

‘You had me worried, wonder boy. Thought you’d skipped on me.’ 

His eyes look bigger, somehow. Maybe it’s the fever. Billy hopes it’s the fever. 

‘No dice, King Steve. I don’t go back on my promises. Let’s take ‘em the fuck down.’ 

Harrington gives him a smirk, and it makes all the energy Billy had to muster worth it. 

It’s worth it. 

* * *

Neil hasn’t been to one of his games since Billy was twelve, and wielding a bat half his size, and trying very hard not to think about how green Jeffrey Amberson’s eyes looked under the sun. 

Not much has changed. Neil’s still watching him like a hawk, and Billy’s trying his hardest to keep away from Harrington, except. 

Harrington’s watching him, too. Billy can feel his eyes on him, following him everywhere. Following him when Billy has the ball. Following him when he doesn’t. Harrington is just. Watching him. 

Neil’s watching him, and Harrington’s watching him too, and Billy’s just trying to watch the _fucking_ ball. 

He just. Needs to keep it together for five more minutes. His head is spinning, and every bone in his body is screaming at him to stop, but. 

He made a promise. He’ll see it through. 

He’s melting under the lights when the coach calls it. The whistle drills through his brain. It’s over. They won. Billy has to— 

_Needs_. Needs to get the fuck out. 

An arm grabs him out of nowhere. Starts guiding him through the crowd. Billy’s ushered out of the door. Right into the back alley. Everyone comes here. To smoke. Skip class. Get blown, probably. 

‘What’s wrong?’ 

Harrington turns him around. Shoves him against the wall. The brick is cold against his back. Billy kinda. Wants to laugh. He’s used to that. Being pushed around. Pushed against. Walls. Bookcases. Burning stoves. It’s his destiny. 

He closes his eyes. 

‘Hargrove. What the fuck’s the matter with you?’ 

‘Nothing’s the matter, Harrington, get the fuck off—’ 

He’s cut off by a palm on his forehead. A palm on his cheek. Just. Resting there. Holding him in place. Billy doesn’t remember the last time somebody did that. Hold him like that. 

Harrington forces out a sigh. ‘What the fuck were you thinking, huh? Running around the court like that. _Hargrove_. You’re running a fever, you idiot.’ 

Billy laughs out something manic. His lashes brush against Harrington’s fingers every time he blinks. He’s so tired. ‘’course I’m running a fever, you fucker. Some asshole took me to shoot hoops in the middle of the night like it’s June and the crickets are chirping.’ 

He’d be expecting the punch right about now. If it was Neil shoving him against the brick. Billy’s not—he can’t figure Harrington out. 

He’s not gearing up for a punch. He’s not hoping he’ll get away with it, either. 

Harrington just. He _laughs_. That’s a punch on its own. Harrington looking at him, looking right through him, and smiling, that’s. That’s worse than a punch. Billy’s been trained to deal with punches. He’s useless against Harrington’s smile. 

‘Christ, they make ‘em delicate on the west coast, huh,’ Harrington shakes his head, and Billy has half a mind to punch the smile out of his face for that. Except. He’s kinda busy. Standing up. Fighting the urge to brush Harrington’s hair back. Get his sweat under his nails. 

‘C’mere,’ Harrington says, like there’s anywhere to go. Like he leaves any space between them, ever. He draws his hands back, just for a moment. Just enough to— 

There’s a scarf being wrapped around his neck. The scarf Harrington had wrapped around his a second ago. 

‘There,’ Harrington’s breathing warmth in the space between them. Hands still on each side of Billy’s neck. Just. Lingering. ‘Can’t letcha catch your death in Indiana, heartbreaker. What’s that say about Midwestern hospitality?’ 

Billy’s so tired. He’s so— 

‘We won.’ He breathes, and breathes, and can’t remember what oxygen tastes like. Harrington’s everywhere. Wrapped around his throat. Harrington’s the only thing Billy can breathe. 

He’s still waiting for the punch. 

‘Yeah,’ Harrington laughs, ‘we did. I toldja, we’re good together. We’re unstoppable, wonder boy. We can do anything we want.’ 

His thumb brushes the soft spot behind Billy’s ear. Billy kinda. He shudders under his touch. It’s the fever, or the rush of the victory, or. 

Or maybe it’s just Harrington. 

Harrington’s eyes flit down to his lips. _Whatever you want_ , Billy thinks. _I’d let you_. 

Harrington blinks back up at him. Tilts his head, almost. Almost like he’s— 

‘There you are.’ Billy kinda. Jumps at the voice. Harrington doesn’t even flinch. ‘We’ve been looking everywhere for you.’ 

Billy glances at Tommy, who. Isn’t even pretending to be surprised. That they’re here together. That Harrington’s almost. Draped all over him. That he’s not moving. 

He nods at him. 

Tommy nods back. ‘Your old man’s looking for you. Seemed kinda fired up about it.’ His eyes dart over to Harrington’s hands. Still around Billy’s neck. ‘You better go check on him, I think.’ 

Billy turns to Harrington. Who hasn’t even. Acknowledged Tommy’s presence. Still burning Billy to the ground with his eyes. ‘Hafta go,’ he whispers. Almost an apology. 

Harrington tightens his hold. Squeezes. Once, twice. Lets his hands drop to his sides. Makes enough space for Billy to walk away. He lets Billy take the first two steps before he catches his wrist. Forces Billy to face him. His eyes are loaded with fire, simmering under honey and amber. ‘Stay safe, Hargrove,’ he says, and he finally lets Billy go. 

Billy—he walks. Fast. At the end of the alleyway, he raises a shaky hand, gives Tommy’s arm a squeeze. ‘Thanks, man,’ he mumbles, and he doesn’t wait for Tommy to turn his sad eyes on him before he’s gone. 

He doesn’t know what he’s thanking him for. Tommy saved him. Billy just. Isn’t certain who from. 

* * *

Max notices. Of _course_ Max notices. 

‘Indiana been treatin’ you well?’ She’s toying with a loose thread on the scarf. Harrington’s scarf. Wrapped around Billy’s neck. 

‘Don’t touch that, Maxine.’ He swats her hand away. She hisses like it stings. It doesn’t. Billy always makes sure it doesn’t. ‘’s not mine.’ 

She’s rolling her eyes before he even. Finishes the sentence. Little fucker. ‘Yeah, I _know_ , I’m saying. I’ve never seen you wearing a scarf before,’ she drawls, and Billy tries, he tries to snap back, _what’s the fucking point of wearing a woolen fucking scarf in the middle of sunny fuckin’ California_ , and then. 

‘What’s her name?’ Max is asking, and that. That shuts Billy up. Because Max doesn’t—she doesn’t know. Not even in the way Neil does. The instinctive kinda way. 

Max doesn’t know. Billy intends to keep it that way. For her own good more than anything else. Her life is already way too fucked up as it is. 

‘How ‘bout you start minding your own business, Maxine, how’s that sound?’ 

‘Oh my god, asshole, I just. You keep whining about this town and how stupid everyone is, so like. Excuse me for being happy you got someone, jeez.’ 

Billy kinda. Swerves off the road. Almost. He has to remember to add Hawkins’ completely empty fucking roads on his list. He doesn’t know what the look he throws at Max after he steadies the car is, but. Max looks kinda. Three seconds away from panicking. 

Fuck. _Fuck_ , that’s. The last thing he wants. 

‘Max, listen, I. Someone gave this to me, okay? And Neil just. Can’t know about it. Okay?’ 

It helps, keeping his voice low. Steady. Nothing like Neil’s. It helps, because Max scoffs, the way she only does around him, and Billy knows enough to count that as a win. 

‘’m not stupid,’ she mutters under her breath, kinda. Daring Billy to argue. 

Billy—he doesn’t. Wouldn’t. Max is. So far from stupid it’s terrifying, sometimes. 

He pulls up to their driveway. The lights are on. Neil and Susan are back. Neil’s waiting. Waiting for him. He’d patted Billy on the shoulder before, said _good game, son_ , so. Billy thinks he might be fine. For tonight. 

‘No,’ he sighs, ‘you’re really not. Neil’s just—’ 

‘I know.’ She looks up at him, and they’re not related, not really, but. Her shade of blue matches his. The frown between her brows does, too, and Billy hates his father, hates the world, hates himself for putting it there. ‘I. Uh, I’m kinda in the mood for some hot cocoa, actually, so like. I’m probably gonna. Make some. I can make you some, too. If you want. Might help with that voice, or. Whatever.’ 

Billy just. He really loves this kid. Shows it by running a sweaty palm through red curls. Ruffles her hair real good before she wakes up enough to pull back. A mask of absolute disgust all over her face. Billy’s mouth hurts from grinning so wide. 

‘Oh my god, Billy, you’re so. _Gross_ , oh my _god_.’ She’s fumbling with the door handle, and she’s trying to get away from him, but. She’s smiling, too. ‘God, just. Go take like. Three hot baths first. _Ugh_.’ The grin she flashes at him over her shoulder kinda. Ruins her whole show. ‘You comin’ or what?’ 

‘Yeah. Yeah, just. Gimme a minute.’ 

She nods, once. Billy watches her walk up to the house. He. He kinda wants to. Call her back. Get her out of here. Away. Somewhere safe. Somewhere warm. She deserves that. 

He’s not sure he does. 

His car smells like Harrington. Harrington’s shampoo, and his cologne, and his. His sweat. Billy leans back against the seat. Keeps his eyes shut. Just. Breathes. 

Max is waiting for him at the house. Making him cocoa. For his throat. Neil isn’t a threat. Not tonight. Billy’s a good son tonight. 

Every breath he takes tastes like Harrington. 

It’s nice. It won’t last, but. 

It’s nice. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i spent a good two min converting celsius to fahrenheit. my life flashed before my eyes. i'll never be the same person again. i hope u guys appreciate the sacrifices i make for u and for this fic
> 
> i'm @[aspartaeme](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. come talk to me about stuff or like. yell @ me abt temperature scales or sth
> 
> also! if u haven't, go listen to [phoebe's new album](https://open.spotify.com/album/2xECuqnvvmVktV7UO8Dd3s), and if u already have, go listen to it again, it's a literal masterpiece. i may or may not've had graceland too on repeat while writing the scarf scene


	3. Chapter 3

He should be used to it by now. The sound of the door slamming against the wall, but. 

It’s easier to train a dog to sleep on the couch than to take a slap without barking back. 

Billy’s still learning. 

The wall should be cracked by now, he thinks. A crack on the wall for a crack on his ribs. Give, and give, and give. Until something breaks. 

It’ll happen. Just. A matter of time. 

He’s reading that book about milk and violence. And. 

_Shit_. He forgot the milk. 

He has half a second to appreciate the irony, and then Neil’s hand is around his throat, and Billy’s against the bookcase, wooden shelves digging into his spine, and he isn’t appreciating anything anymore. 

He forgot the milk. Neil forgets they’re in Hawkins. A crack on the wall. A crack on his ribs. It’s a fair trade. 

The wood rattles behind him. Neil’s not a big guy, but. Solid. Stout. Compact. His hand’s blocking Billy’s airway. Neil gave him breath. He’s taking it back. 

‘Susan gave you a list, didn’t she?’ She’s sleeping. Susan. Max is, too. Neil can snarl in his face all he wants. Quietly, but. 

Not that there’s any point in it, anyway. Billy’s on his tiptoes. Blinking back tears. Blinking back the darkness that’s threatening to take over. Creeping in, slowly. Edges of his vision going fuzzy with it. 

He’s grasping at consciousness. He needs to stay awake. Long enough for the hit he knows it’s coming. 

Neil’s always asking for impossible things. Billy can’t. He can’t breathe. 

‘She asked you to do one thing, and you couldn’t even do that right.’ Neil’s grip tightens before he lets go. 

Just in time. 

Billy slumps to the floor. Air floods his lungs like a punch out of nowhere. It burns. It’s the best thing he’s ever felt. 

He coughs out a few breaths before he tries. ‘Dad—’ 

‘I’m trying, Billy.’ Neil’s pinching the bridge of his nose. His son’s wheezing on the floor, and Neil’s pinching the bridge of his nose. ‘I’m really trying. To teach you. Turn you into a responsible man.’ His hand flies out to Billy’s hair. Grabs a handful. _Tugs_. Forces Billy to look up. Look at him. ‘But you’re just. Not learning, are you? What am I going to do with you?’ 

‘’m sorry,’ he croaks. On the edge of a wail. He swallows down the rest of it. 

Neil. He just. Hums. Yanks at Billy’s hair again. ‘Get up.’ 

Billy gets up. Half on his own. He’s half pulled up. It’s half a choice. 

Small victories. 

He catches sight of himself in the mirror. His throat’s an angry red. Marked. The shape of Neil’s fingers on him. One more way of giving in. 

He wonders when he’ll run out. It’ll happen, Billy knows it will. Neil—he keeps asking. Taking. Seizing back what he gave. One day, Billy thinks. One day he’ll come up empty. Nothing more to give. 

He never seems to run out of tears. Keeps giving them to Neil. He can’t help it. 

Neil looks at him for a moment. His son, hunched against the bookcase. Tears running down his cheeks. Tears Neil put there. 

Billy. Can’t help it. Flinches when Neil reaches out. Runs a finger over the red mark on his throat. Careful. Not pressing. Like Billy’s still seven and sunkissed and Neil’s rubbing aloe on his skin. 

Billy always loved getting burnt by the sun. The warmth. Yellow, and hot, and safe. Like a hug. 

He meets Neil’s eyes, and it’s cold. Cold. Blue. Cold. The end of a flame. Just before it dies out. 

Well. 

Just before _something_ dies out. 

Neil steps back. ‘Get your coat.’ 

‘What—’ 

‘Your sister drinks a cup of milk every morning. We can’t have her going to school hungry.’ 

‘Dad,’ he tries, even though. He knows. He’s already lost. ‘The stores aren’t open now.’ 

It’s horrible, the smile Neil throws his way. Twisted with something bad, and foul, and evil. ‘Then I suppose you’ll have to wait outside until the store opens. Isn’t that right, Billy?’ 

He doesn’t even need a hand around Billy’s throat. Neil’s always choking him. Takes up all the oxygen in the room. 

His lungs fill up with something wet and nebulous and nasty when he croaks, ‘It’s cold out.’ Just above a whisper. Futile. Already dissipated in the air. 

Neil pins him with a dark look, ‘Wear your coat,’ fumbles around for a second. Makes a grab for the bedside table. Throws Billy his car keys, and then. ‘Where’d that come from?’ He’s kneading wool between his fingers, deep, dark, blood red and Billy. Billy’s blood turns cold. 

He pushes down the urge to turn to his side, throw up the four bites of chicken à la crème he could get down earlier. 

Neil throws him the scarf, already moved on to the little pill bottle next to the worn copy of Faulkner. _As I lay dying_. His next read. Just a small inside joke for Billy to laugh to the next time his skin turns blue. 

He catches it mid-air. Clutches it tight to his chest, just for a second. Like that’ll make Neil’s touch bleed out of it. He wraps it around his neck in two moves. It’s a familiar thing by now. He’s been wrapping himself in Harrington’s smell for weeks. When he’s cold. When he isn’t. When he’s lying awake in bed, a hand moving in his pants, Harrington tight around his skin, the only thing on his mind. 

He pockets the keys for good measure. In case Neil granted them out of habit. It’s freezing out there. Not even Harrington’s gift can keep him warm in the middle of an Indiana winter night at Melvald’s parking lot. 

Neil watches him fumble his way around getting dressed. Billy forgets how to move around him. Like a puppet with broken strings. Neil cuts them off, leaves him thrashing around helplessly. 

He’s not sure how this goes. If he’s meant to ask for permission to leave. Go out there. Face his fate. He makes for the door. 

‘Billy.’ His father’s face is set on something deadly, calm. He waits for Billy’s muttered _sir?_ before grabbing his wrist. Circling his fingers around it. Pressing down along the tendon. ‘You remember that night? When you came back late from that concert?’ 

Billy—he does. He can feel the rain thrumming in his bones every time the air grows heavy with it. His left wrist creaks something awful every time he puts pressure on it. He was careless that night. He was late. Neil had been waiting. 

He swallows. Ignores the pulse thrumming in his ears. Hopes it keeps thrumming. Just one more night. Just one more. 

‘Yes, sir,’ he mutters, tone flat, and calm, and hushed. Everything to mask the storm inside. 

Neil can see right through him. He lowers his voice, makes Billy lean closer to hear him. ‘Your mother and sister are sleeping. Keep quiet.’ His fingers squeeze around Billy’s wrist. A nail digs into his pulse. A reminder. A warning. Billy’s heartbeat beats his answer under Neil’s thumb. 

He nods. ‘I’ll do better,’ he breathes in, and Neil lets him go, and Billy breathes out. 

He keeps quiet on his way out. 

* * *

He’s bathed in teal. Billy’s like. Actually surprised neon lighting has reached Hawkins. It’s less of a nightmare than he’d like it to be. It’s almost. Almost _nice_. Being the only car parked in the middle of Melvald’s parking lot. Electricity cracking and buzzing and flicking above him. 

It’s almost. Almost like he’s the only person alive in the whole world. Just him and his baby, humming under his legs. 

He should thank Neil, he thinks, and he wheezes out something manic around the filter. He’s bathed in teal, clouded in smoke. Nothing else exists. 

He’s actually. Contemplating sleep. Still has a few hours of darkness before the store opens. Before Maxine wakes up in a milkless home. 

He’s not sure how long he’s drifted off for when it wakes him up. The _thunk_. Against his window. He blinks sleep and smoke and neon off his eyelids. Focuses on dark brown staring back at him. _Fuck._

He lowers his window. The cold air hits him like a slap. Makes his eyes water. He blinks, and Harrington’s still there. Still looking. Mouth tilted on a smirk. 

‘Heya, King Steve.’ He tries licking his lips. Goes as far as getting his tongue out. Gets a mouthful of cold for his trouble. ‘Whatcha doin’ here at this hour?’ 

The smirk blows up into a grin. Harrington isn’t even. He’s wearing a sweater. No coat in sight. ‘Could ask you the same thing, heartbreaker. Sleeping outside’a Melvald’s in the middle of the night. Might give a guy the wrong idea.’ 

_Or the fucking right one_ , Billy thinks. 

‘Shit, you’re not.’ Harrington’s narrowing his eyes at him, neon bouncing off his skin. Like a dream. Like a nightmare. ‘One of these. How’s that called?’ He snaps his fingers, always impatient. ‘You fall asleep everywhere?’ 

Billy kinda. Can’t help it. Chuckles out a laugh, frozen breath and all. ‘Been watching too many movies, Harrington. ‘m not narcoleptic.’ 

Harrington’s eyes fall to his neck. Billy can. Pinpoint the moment he spots it. The red scarf. The red bruise. He thought he’d covered it up. He thought he was alone in the world. 

‘Suits you,’ he murmurs, reaching out, and then Harrington’s knuckles are grazing against his skin. ‘This, not so much. Why are you out here, heartbreaker?’ 

Billy lets out a sigh. Watches it turn white in the space between them. ‘Harrington, I’ll. I’ll give you the scarf back tomorrow, okay? Just lemme have it one more night,’ he says, praying to any deity that might be listening that Harrington will just. Let it go. Forget the shape of Neil’s fingers on Billy. He hopes. He hopes, he— 

Harrington hooks two fingers around the hem. Pulls it down. Enough to give him a full view. Neil’s mark tattooed on Billy’s neck. The lights flicker above them. Neil is sleeping on the other side of town. Harrington keeps him there, pinned under his touch, matching Billy’s breath with his own, white to white. 

He steps away after a minute. There’s a smile plastered on his face. It looks. Deadly. ‘I got beer in the car, wonder boy. Whaddya say? Race ya to the quarry,’ he says, and he. Doesn’t wait for an answer. He’s in his car in a flash, driving away, and Billy—Billy moves, like a toy, wind him up and let him run, and he fucking _does_. 

He runs. No way in hell is Harrington winning this time, too. 

He _runs_. 

* * *

Harrington cheats. He fucking. Cheats. 

‘You ran a light, asshole.’ 

Harrington’s already perched against his BMW, arms crossed, like Billy kept him _waiting_. Harrington _cheated_. 

‘Lights don’t matter when the world’s asleep, heartbreaker,’ he chuckles. ‘What do they teach you out there? Besides,’ he tears a can out of the plastic ring, motions Billy to come closer, ‘rules are meant to be broken.’ He hands the beer to Billy. Their fingers brush. Harrington’s mouth is stretched in a grin. ‘Right?’ 

_Meant to be broken_. 

Billy’s got a whole list of bones on his body that were never meant to be broken to remind him that rules are meant to be obeyed. Respected. 

He downs his beer. Feels the buzz flowing in his veins. _Fuck it_. He’s been breaking for so long. He can break some more. 

He fills the space Harrington’s left for him on the metal. Leans against it. Thighs and arms pressed together. It’s freezing. Billy’s shivering. He chalks it up to the cold. 

‘You know about the girl who died down there?’ Harrington’s pointing his beer to the darkness below. They’re still far from the edge. Billy recoils back anyway. 

‘Shit,’ he mumbles around the rim. ‘Wha’ happened?’ 

‘There was a bonfire. Lots of stupid teenagers. Lots and lots’a beer.’ Harrington chuckles out something bitter. ‘Never a good combination, these two.’ He shakes his hand, shakes the bottle of beer. Watches the liquid sloshing around inside for a beat. ‘We got stupid drunk. Played dare or dare. Barb was supposed to go near the edge.’ He shrugs. _It happens_. ‘She never came back.’ 

Billy. He comes close to death every day. He’s never. Faced it. Not really. Never even been to a funeral. Life is funny like that. 

‘ _We?_ ’ 

Harrington lets out a scoff. Bitter. Twisted. ‘Oh, yeah. I was there. Tommy, too. It was good until it wasn’t.’ He looks lost for a moment. Not there. ‘Didn’t even know her, y’know? She was just another nerd in my class. Everyone called her a dyke. Or maybe. I even started the rumour, I don’t know. Probably was true, anyway. Still,’ he turns to Billy, a storm all over his face, ‘she didn’t deserve to go like that. Fucked me up for a long time after it happened. This place still freaks me out.’ 

Billy’s been chewing the inside of his cheek ever since Harrington said. That word. It’s a small leap from there. To the other one. The one Neil holds against him every day of his life. Just three letters. _Didn’t deserve to go like that_. Is that what they’ll say about him, too? 

He cracks a second can open. He hasn’t eaten anything since yesterday. Maybe. If he’s lucky. He’ll get blind drunk. Fall off the edge. 

‘That’s fucked up,’ he mutters into the night, and he doesn’t just mean _Barb_. Barb the nerd. Barb the dyke. He doesn’t know anything else about her. 

He wishes he did. 

Harrington sighs. Shrugs again. _It happens_. 

* * *

‘So,’ Harrington starts a couple of beers later, ‘you know Melvald’s closes at nine, right?’ 

Billy heaves a sigh. He’s drunk enough not to bristle at what’s coming. ‘Yeah, smartass. Stores do that back home, too.’ 

Harrington raises his eyebrows, like. _Go on_. _Tell me_. _Wanna know_. 

‘I just—’ Billy struggles to find the least violent way to describe. His whole life, really. ‘I forgot to buy milk.’ Like that explains why he was sleeping in his car in the middle of the night. In February. In Hawkins. Like that explains anything. 

Harrington nods. Hums. Like he got his answer anyway. 

Billy thinks he’s safe for all of five seconds, and then Harrington motions towards his hand, half-way to his mouth for a sip. ‘What about your wrist?’ 

‘What about it?’ 

‘You know we’re playin’ basketball together every day, right? I see you trying not to put pressure on it. When’dja break it?’ 

_1981._ _Snuck out to go to a Mötley concert. Neil was waiting. Broke it on his knee._ ‘Fell off my bike when I was thirteen, Harrington, lay off.’ 

Harrington doesn’t—he doesn’t nod this time. Steps right in front of Billy. Takes the can from him. Downs it. Flings it behind him. Straight into the darkness. 

Billy doesn’t know what to do with his hands. Doesn’t know what to do with himself. 

Harrington circles his wrist. Lifts it up to the light from their cars, dim and yellow and alien. Turns it that way and the other. The way the nurses at the hospital did when Billy came in clutching it close to his chest. _It was an accident_. 

‘What about your back?’ Harrington asks, and he lets Billy’s wrist fall to his side, snakes his hand up, up, inside Billy’s coat, inside his shirt, traces a line along his spine, a little to the left, where the skin is raised and pink and scarred. ‘What happened there?’ 

Billy. Recites. One. Two. In. Out. Breathebreathe _breathe_ — 

‘Burned myself on the stove a coupl’a years ago.’ The lie burns hot on his tongue the way the eye sizzled his skin for the whole minute Neil was pressing him against it. Billy still remembers the smell. Burnt flesh. Cooked. Ready to tear into. ‘Wasn’t paying attention. Walked right into it. Hurt like a bitch, okay?’ 

Ruined his favorite shirt, too. He leaves that part out. 

Harrington hums. Something closes on his face. Like Billy keeps giving him the wrong answers. Except he. Doesn’t look surprised. Like Billy’s giving him exactly what he expected. 

‘What else?’ His fingers never stop etching circles around the scar. Rubbing aloe on sunburnt skin. _All better._ ‘C’mon, Billy. What else?’ 

He’s never been _Billy_ before. Not to Harrington. Maybe he’s never been _Billy_ until tonight. 

‘Don’t,’ he says, asks, begs, and hopes the darkness can swallow his voice when it breaks. 

Harrington scoffs. _Keep breaking_. ‘What else?’ 

The inch Harrington’s got on him seems bigger this close. Or maybe it’s just the beer flowing through Billy’s veins. Distorting everything. 

It’s probably the beer. 

‘He’s not—’ His voice dies halfway. Harrington pierces soft flesh with his nails. Right next to the scar. Billy. Breathes. Breathes. ‘It’s not always like this.’ 

They breathe in each other’s space for a moment longer before Harrington steps away. Leans back against the hood. A halo of light around him. Like a nightmare. 

Like a dream. 

‘Gotta be more careful, heartbreaker,’ he says, eyes fixed straight ahead. ‘I like having you around.’ 

* * *

Harrington manoeuvres him into the car. That’s the last thing he remembers. 

(That’s a lie. 

The last thing he remembers is closing his eyes, Harrington disappearing behind his eyelids. 

It’s Harrington’s hands on him, smoothing the creases on his coat, making sure Billy’s bundled up. 

It’s his own voice, humming, seconds before falling asleep, or maybe already fallen, and a word, _pretty_ , whispered like a secret. Last rites. 

It’s Harrington laughing, laughing, _bet you say that to all the boys_ , laughing. 

It’s a hand on his forehead. Brushing back curls. Lingering. 

It’s falling. 

He falls. 

That’s the last thing he remembers.) 

* * *

He panics something awful when he wakes up in a strange place. 

Panics some more when the fog is lifted. It comes back to him, all at once. 

It’s still dark. Just a sliver of light curving around the horizon. Harrington’s car is purring under his legs. It’s warm. Billy can’t remember the last time he felt so. So warm. Safe. 

There’s a breathy laugh from somewhere above. The door is wrenched open. ‘Nice to have you back with us, Sleeping Beauty,’ Harrington manages around the widest smirk Billy’s ever witnessed. He presses something warm in Billy’s palm. 

The steaming black liquid sloshing around the cup is a meager compensation for the assault of cold air on Billy’s face. He thinks he translates that sentiment in the grunt he accepts the coffee with. He takes a sip, and that’s a bad move, apparently, because. 

He’s awake. He’s not in Neil’s house. Neil’s—he’s waiting. He’ll be waiting. Billy has to. He needs to go— 

‘Settle down, heartbreaker,’ Harrington’s hand on his shoulder’s pushing him back, back against the seat. Back where it’s warm. Safe. ‘’s not even six yet. You got time.’ 

That’s. That’s nice, Harrington thinking that. That Billy’s got time, except. Billy _doesn’t_ , hasn’t, not ever. 

He climbs out of the car. Harrington blocking him all the way. Not moving one inch. Doesn’t step back even when Billy’s out there, out in the cold Indiana air, pressed between the car and Harrington’s solid form. ‘I gotta—’ 

‘She’s purring like a cat in heat, your car.’ 

Billy. Stops trying to get away. ‘What?’ 

Harrington licks his lips. The corner of his mouth tilts up in something sly, knowing. ‘She’s got a nice slide on ice, for a beach babe.’ 

‘You—’ Billy’s fumbling for words. For his sanity. Mind still fuzzy from sleep. He can feel the world tilting on its axis. Harrington fucking. Drove his car. Harrington drove his car. No one’s ever. _Ever_ — ‘How did you—’ 

‘There’s a carton of milk on the passenger seat,’ Harrington goes on, and when Billy keeps blinking at him, ‘You were sleeping, heartbreaker. Didn’t wanna risk waking you up by driving mine,’ he shrugs. It’s not an apology. ‘s just what it is. Like that—somehow restores the cosmic balance. 

It does, for a second, and then. Harrington says, ‘Oh,’ says, ‘You probably need those,’ says, ‘Gimme a sec,’ fishes the keys from his jeans. The Camaro’s keys. Billy’s keys. Makes a show of throwing them, catching them mid-air. Takes a step closer, which. Shouldn’t be possible. They’re running out of steps to take. 

‘Thanks for letting me borrow her, heartbreaker,’ Harrington lies on a breath, snakes the hand holding the keys between them. His fingers find the edge of Billy’s left pocket. Start sliding inside. Slowly. Only a thin layer of fabric separates them from Billy’s skin. 

Billy can feel his throat closing around nothing. He swallows, and swallows, and watches as Harrington’s eyes lock on the movement. 

His breath is punched out of him in short puffs of white. Mingles with Harrington’s. Billy feels the soft _thump_ of the keys meeting the fabric when Harrington lets them fall. Feels the pads of his fingers sliding higher, higher, until they’re hooked around the hem of the pocket, just for a second before they’re gone. 

Harrington takes his hand back. Takes all the warmth with him, too. 

Billy lets out the breath he’s been holding all this time. It comes out shaky. The name rolls out of his mouth like it’s been there for a while. Like it’s already made a home behind his teeth. ‘Steve—’ 

‘Gotta get goin’, wonder boy.’ It’s a sharp thing, the way Harrington cuts him off. Definite. He eases back, leaves enough space for Billy to walk away. He clears his throat. ‘See you at school.’ 

Billy. Isn’t sure he can use his feet. The sun’s almost halfway up, and Harrington’s bathed in grey, and pink, and light, light blue, and Billy. Wants. He wants. He could get lost in this, he thinks. In the sight of Harrington, first thing in the morning. A halo of sunlight and fog around him. 

He could get lost. He could— 

He tears himself away. The wool around his neck scratches his skin, Harrington’s gift hiding Neil’s where it rests against the bruises. ‘Harrington?’ he calls, and he’s already halfway through taking it off, and Harrington’s back in his space. 

‘Don’t,’ it’s more an order than anything else. His hands flex at his sides. Like he means to reach out. Billy—wants. He wants him to. Harrington. Never does. ‘Keep it,’ he says, eyes on Billy’s neck. Hazel laser beams. Like he can just. See right through the fabric. _Nothing new under the sun_. ‘You need it more than I do.’ 

Billy—he could get lost. He turns around. Drives away. 

The milk carton’s glaring at him for the whole drive up Cherry Lane. No one’s awake yet. 

Harrington bought the fancy kind. 

* * *

Neil ruffles Max’s hair when he walks in the kitchen. Places a kiss on the top of her head. Says, ‘Good morning, honey.’ 

Billy’s sitting right there. He doesn’t get a _good morning_ , or a kiss, or a ruffle. Maybe he’s not sitting there at all. Maybe he’s still with Harrington, staring down the mouth of darkness. 

Maybe he fell, and never hit the ground. Maybe he’s still falling. 

Max grabs the carton of milk, pours some in her Grape Ape mug. She’d die a painful death before admitting it’s her favorite. Billy’d give her hell about it if he was. All there. Not a shadow. Not falling. 

‘I thought we were out of—’ she starts and it’s still so early, sun barely filtering through the rusted gray blinds on the back door, but. Max is. Fucking smart. Has been trained well. Has seen _stuff_ happening in this house one too many times, so. She stops. She looks at Billy, and she furrows her brows, and she stops. 

She downs the rest of her milk. 

Billy clears his throat. ‘You ‘bout ready to go?’ and when Max nods, something fragile and tentative and knowing about it, ‘I’ll wait for you in the car,’ he says, because. He knows. Max’ll stand up. Rinse her cup in the sink. Go to her room. And then it’s just. 

Billy’s still got Harrington’s scarf wrapped around his neck. Doesn’t give a shit at this point. He’s tired, and his throat is sore, and it shouldn’t, it shouldn’t be, because Neil’s fingers were real, and tangible, and unyielding around him, but Billy’s been choking, burning, falling apart on the inside for years, and. 

He. Doesn’t give a shit. Takes a whiff of Harrington’s scent. _To battle_. 

‘It’s Wednesday. You have basketball practice after school. Is that right?’ 

Billy bristles at the tone. Makes him think of interrogation rooms, lights in his face. He stays in his chair. Easier to lose balance if he’s standing up. ‘Yes, sir. I’ll be done by five-thirty.’ 

Neil looks at him for the first time since. Last night. Since fingers around Billy’s throat. Since _keep quiet_. ‘I’ll be expecting you home by six at the latest. You’re grounded for this week, and the next.’ 

‘Dad—’ 

Neil slams a palm against the table. Makes the china rattle and shake. Spilling milk all over Susan’s precious floral tablecloth. Makes Billy rattle and shake, too. Still. After all these years. ‘You have to _learn_ ,’ he snarls, and Billy’ll be terrified later, how calm he looks. How collected. How—detached. ‘You need to be responsible. I’ll keep sayin’ it until you learn it,’ he says, and he means _I’ll keep beating it into you until you break_ , and he means _I’ll keep doing it after that, too_. 

The chair scrapes against the linoleum when Neil stands up. Leaves his cup on the table. His plate, too. He stops in front of the hallway mirror. Slicks his hair back, tongue running over his teeth. Catches Billy still fixed on the chair, looking. Waiting. ‘You bought the wrong kind,’ he says, and he walks away. 

* * *

He drops Max off. Turns right back around. He can’t face school like that. Red circles ‘round his eyes, and red marks around his throat, and red stars behind his eyelids. 

He can’t face Harrington, not now. 

It’s easy in Hawkins, finding a patch of wood far enough for anyone to hear. Anyone to get suspicious. He leaves the Camaro on the side of the road, behind a payphone. Figures he can pretend he got out to take a piss behind a tree if anyone finds him. Which. No one will. It’s Hawkins. Anything can happen in these woods. 

He walks, and he walks, until he’s sure, until he knows the sounds will be muffled by the forest. The first crunch of the wood under his knuckles is an instant rush. Like a drug. Like taking a hit after so long. 

He thinks of Neil’s hands around his throat, and the way he looks at Billy, like a mistake, like an intruder, in his picture-perfect fucking family, and the blood on his knuckles paints the trunk red with every hit. 

The woods are silent, unmoving around him, and every punch falls loud like a bullet. Deafening. Maybe Neil’s right. Maybe Billy’s unwelcome. A glitch in the system. 

He shuts his eyes, feels the sweat gliding down his face. Harrington’s there, among the red and the stars, and Billy thinks about last night, how his name fell out of Harrington’s lips. How right it felt. Like it belonged there. Like Billy—like Billy belonged. 

His knuckles sting with the force of the next hit. And the next one. And the next. He wants to belong. He wants, he wants, he wants— 

By the time he’s empty, there’s a hole in the tree the shape of his fist, and the fog of the forest’s taken over the fog in his mind. He crouches down to assess the damage. It’s bad, but. Nothing the school nurse isn’t used to from him. He’ll pay her a visit during lunch. Gives him enough time to be ready for practice. 

The cold seeps through his clothes, settling somewhere deep in his bones, but. It’s silent, here. It’s silent, and the pine’s solid against his back, and he’s all alone. 

He bleeds, and he bleeds, and he bleeds. 

It doesn’t get better. 

* * *

‘So,’ Tommy starts, flopping down next to him with his tray, ‘what’re we doing for V day?’ 

Harrington’s sitting on the other side of the table. Eyes glued on Billy’s knuckles. The scab around the wounds. Hasn’t taken his eyes off them for the last four days. Ever since Billy turned up late for practice, bandages around his palms, hair matted with sweat on his forehead. 

That’s the only thing Harrington looks at, lately. That, and Vicky Coleman. Billy’s a pair of tits short, so. Can’t really compete. 

‘Wha’, y’tryin’ to ma’ Carol j’lous or somethin’?’ Billy asks around a mouthful. It’s pizza day. He barely had time to grab a piece of burnt toast from the breakfast table before Neil threw him a look dark enough to drive him out of the house this morning, so. He’s hungry. 

Harrington snorts. ‘Tommy, dude, you’ve been goin’ steady with Carol since. Like. Kindergarten. Don’t throw your _what’re we doing_ bullshit at me. You probably have some. Weird couple thing planned for months.’ 

Tommy huffs out a scoff, half indignant, half defeated. Harrington’s right. They all know it. He probably has fuschia balloons with Carol’s name hidden in his room. It’s sickening. It’s. It’s kinda sweet. Almost. 

‘Hey man, don’t mock true love. Just because you’re an asshole who can’t settle doesn’t make me a wimp,’ Tommy says, turns to Billy, knocks their knees together, ‘Am I right or am I right, Hargrove?’ 

‘What d’you know about true love, heartbreaker?’ Harrington cuts in before Billy can laugh his agreement, and when Tommy rolls his eyes at him, ‘What? He’s worse than me.’ He turns a dark look on Billy, tongue running over his lip, ready for the kill. ‘Billy-boy doesn’t do love. Wouldn’t know it if it punched him in the face.’ 

Billy slides his plate away. He doesn’t know what’s in his eyes, when he looks back up at Harrington, says, ‘Nah. I think I’ll know it when I see it,’ but Harrington bristles, like he wasn’t expecting an answer. Like he wasn’t expecting _that_. 

He recovers fast, schools his face back to the same haughty, arrogant thing Billy’s been soiling tissues to for months. ‘That reminds me. You got plans?’ He nods at Tommy, an acknowledgment of what started this. ‘For next week?’ 

Tommy’s arm stops halfway up his mouth, fingers clenching around his soda can. ‘Why? You wanna ask him out?’ 

‘You jealous, baby?’ Harrington’s mouth tilts up at the corners, and there’s nothing dark there. Only playful. ‘You know you’re always my number one.’ When he turns to Billy, there’s no game in his eyes, not anymore. ‘Whaddya say? Wanna get out of your house for a few hours?’ 

Billy clears his throat to bide his time. His heart’s rabbiting in his chest, something fizzy and bubbly and ecstatic burning a path down his throat. Whatever the catch is, Harrington. Wants to get him away from Neil on Valentine’s Day. It’s. It’s enough. It’s more than enough. ‘Gonna give me the royal treatment, King Steve?’ 

‘Well,’ Harrington says, staring at a point past Billy’s shoulder, ‘We’re taking Vicky and her sister to the movies, if you’re up for it. You know how chicks get with horror flicks. They’ll be rubbing up on us for two hours.’ He gives Billy a smile, all sharp edges and danger. ‘If that ain’t your idea of a good time, Hargrove, I don’t know what is.’ 

That’s what Harrington says, except his winks, and there’s a glint behind his eyes, and Billy thinks. Maybe that’s a lie. Maybe he knows. 

And then. Everything falls apart. A chair screeches behind Billy, and a guy appears in front of them. Scrawny, meek, carrying something tired on his shoulders. 

‘Can we help you, Byers?’ Harrington doesn’t even raise his eyes. Keeps stirring away at his pudding, plastic spoon going round and round and round. There’s something brittle about it. Forced. Harrington’s trying too hard. 

Harrington. Never tries. To show he doesn’t give a fuck. He just. Doesn’t. For anybody, most days. He’s trying too hard, now. 

It’s like the crack on his wall, Billy thinks. Gets bigger with every slam of the door, everytime Neil visits. He can almost hear it, the crack-crack-cracking. Everything crumbling to pieces. 

It’s not loud. When _Byers_ squares his jaw. When he bites out, ‘You’re such an asshole,’ every word catching on his throat like it costs him something awful, pinning Harrington with a look, eyes sunken and tired and. Determined. 

It’s not loud. 

He barely stutters out, ‘You can’t just talk about people that way,’ and then Harrington’s on him, and that. 

That doesn’t happen. Harrington. He doesn’t fight. Billy’s never seen him fight, except Harrington’s got Byers by the lapels of his coat. Billy blinks, and Harrington’s got a guy by the throat, got him half-suspended in the air, tips of his toes barely touching the ground. Wrapped in a coat way too big for him. Second, third, fourth hand. 

It’s all too familiar for Billy’s taste. 

He almost. If he closes his eyes, he can almost see himself in Byers’ place. He almost. Wishes he was. Wishes he had Harrington’s hands on him. 

The guy’s skinny, and maybe. Maybe he thought Harrington wouldn’t fight back. Tommy’s not even out of his seat. He makes a move, to get up. Come to the rescue. Do what he does best. Fight all the battles. Fight all of Harrington’s battles, except. Harrington motions him to stay put. Doesn’t even need to spare him a glance to know what Tommy’s doing. 

Everything’s fuzzy. Byers is clawing helplessly at Harrington’s hands. 

It’s way too familiar. 

Billy can hear the crack spreading on the wall. Crack-crack-cracking. 

_It’ll break_. 

‘What the fuck did you just say to me, fag?’ Harrington says, and the crack splits open. It breaks. 

Billy grips the edges of the table. To steady himself. He doesn’t need to close his eyes this time. He blinks, and he’s pushed against a bookcase, and Neil’s spewing that word in his face. He blinks, and Harrington’s got a guy by the throat, and the line blurs. One blends into the other. 

It burns. Hearing that word out of Harrington’s mouth. It bounces off his lips like it doesn’t mean a thing, like it doesn’t shoot straight into Billy’s veins, turns his blood to acid. 

Everything feels hazy. Feels far away. The way it does after taking a hit to the head. 

Billy blinks again, and there’s a girl in front of Harrington. Skinny, like Byers. Lips pursed in determination. Eyes cold, and big, and. Blue. Just like Billy’s. She’s. Pretty. Her eyes look like Billy’s. It’s— 

‘Let him go.’ 

Harrington lets out a scoff. A small, mean thing. ‘God, Byers. Could you be any more pathetic? Getting a girl to fight your battles?’ He lets Byers down, though. Shaking his head, _we’re just joking here_. His hands stay close. Fixing the guy’s coat, flicking off dust. Proving a point. _I’m the King_. _I own you_. 

‘Your friend needs to learn how things work around here, sweetheart. He needs to start showing some respect,’ Harrington drawls, and Billy’s not even here, he doesn’t think so, doesn’t feel like he is, but. He sucks in a breath, grips the edges of the table that bit tighter. He’s grateful Harrington’s facing away from him. It belongs to Neil, that word, _you have to learn_ , _I’m gonna have to teach you_ , _show some respect to your father, boy_ , and now it doesn’t. Not anymore. It belongs to Harrington, too. 

It hurts worse than a hit to the head. 

The skinny bitch blushes, and that’s familiar, too. Billy blushes around Harrington all the time, and he’s never called him _sweetheart_. Still, she keeps her jaw clenched, and her eyes, that look just like Billy’s, they stay hard and icy and unforgiving when she seethes, ‘He’s not my _friend_. I’m just a decent human being. Maybe _you_ should learn how to do that,’ before turning on her feet. Walking away. 

Harrington chuckles in her direction. ‘I like her,’ he says, to no one in particular. Byers scoffs, and Harrington looks at him, like he just remembered he was still there. 

‘It’s not my fault your dad’s an asshole and your momma’s a loon, Byers.’ Harrington laughs. A short, mean thing. Keeps blurring the lines. Doesn’t even give Billy the time to worry about the beats his heart keeps skipping before he’s pushing Byers away, hard enough to make him lose his balance, crash into the table next to them with a sharp thud. ‘Take your family issues some place else next time. Get the fuck out of my face.’ 

Byers looks one dig away from crying, or slamming his entire skinny body against Harrington’s. Has enough sense to do neither. He just. Turns around. Does what he’s told. 

Billy—breathes out. For the first time in minutes. Or hours. Maybe months. He breathes out. 

There’s something sick making its way up his throat. He swallows, and it goes down sour, like the cough syrup Neil used to give him when he got sick. 

Harrington turns to face them, Tommy and Billy, still glued in their seats, and there’s a mean victory written over his face, and that’s familiar, too. 

He snaps his fingers, twice. The world resumes around him. Like everything was suspended mid-air along with Byers. Harrington hits play again. ‘C’mon. Let’s go.’ 

Billy. Doesn’t think he can move. He’ll do something crazy. Like throw a punch, or raise his arms to protect his head, ‘cause that’s the first rule in a fight, everyone knows that, or. Run away. 

Tommy’s already by Harrington’s side, eyes glinting like he’s got a share in the King’s victory. Billy can’t move. 

Harrington waves a hand, snaps out his name. Neil’s name. It sounds like a storm about to break. 

‘I’ll catch up with you,’ Billy manages, voice grating, clawing its way out of his throat. He keeps staring at the spot Byers was standing in, feet almost in the air, hunched shoulders hidden by his threadbare coat. He can’t look at Harrington, he can’t— 

It’s silent, and Billy knows that’s part of the storm too. He looks up. Fast enough to catch a glimpse of something—hurt, and small, and sad in Harrington’s eyes. Almost like remorse. Like regret. Like the aftermath of rejection. It fades away in a second, gets replaced with a set jaw, and a scoff, and blank eyes. 

Billy can’t move. It hurts. It’s broken now. 

Harrington looks away. Purses his lips. Makes his exit with Tommy on his tail. 

Billy. Just. Stays still for a second longer. The world around him moves, and moves, and moves. Not on pause anymore. 

He rushes to his feet. Barely makes it to the bathroom, closes the door to a stall, before he’s crouched on the floor, heaving, emptying his stomach down the drain. There’s no blood in there. It’s just pizza crust, and tomato sauce, and pepperoni. 

There should be blood, Billy thinks. That’s the way it goes. He should be bleeding. 

It’s broken now. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *opens trenchcoat* would u like some,,,,,pain
> 
> if anyone wants to talk to me or like. yell at me for taking a literal month to post this chapter. i'm right [here](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/) on tumblr


	4. Chapter 4

He avoids Harrington for the next couple days. Is the last person to walk in every class they share. The first to walk out. 

He even. Skips practice. It’s. It’s all good. He’s fine. He’s coping. 

It’s all fine. 

Then he makes up his mind. 

As soon as the bell sounds their two-day freedom, Billy tears out of the parking lot like the devil’s on his tail. Neil’s still got him under curfew, so. Technically. 

He’s got two hours before the devil comes looking. 

The driveway’s wide enough for two cars to fit. Of course it is. Royal privileges, and all. Harrington’s not here yet. No one else is here, either. Just Billy and his baby. No parents. No other cars. 

He wonders how that feels. No parents. No cars. No—no Neil. 

He wonders if Harrington’s ever woken up with the heel of a boot in his face. 

The King doesn’t keep him waiting for long. His Beemer slides up next to the Camaro a moment later. Βurgundy red next to ocean blue. 

Billy thinks, irrationally—they’re both royal colors. Both fit for kings. 

Harrington rolls down his window. His eyes shine with a question, and Billy doesn’t answer, doesn’t back down. Holds Harrington’s gaze. Watches the question shift into something. Something else. Something like delight. 

Almost like an apology. _I’m sorry_. _I’m sorry_. _I’ll kill you_. _I’m sorry_. 

Billy grins. His chest feels too small. Like he swallowed the moon. Like his ribcage’s expanding, and cracking, and glowing. He grins. _Catch me first_. 

He starts the car. 

* * *

They play by the rules this time. Nobody cheats. It’s different when the lights are on. 

Billy knows where he’s taking them. He leads. Harrington follows. It’s— 

It’s new. 

‘You disappeared on me,’ is Harrington’s opening line. Billy hasn’t. Heard his voice, not since— 

Harrington’s almost whining, and Billy has to stifle a smirk. Knows his mouth is twitching with the effort, but. It’s not everyday the King of Hawkins whines at you. Because he. He missed you. 

Billy stifles the smirk. Has to shove down the urge to learn how that whine tastes on his lips, too. 

Harrington broke it. Billy has to. Keep reminding himself. He has to. 

Harrington broke it. Billy’s still here. 

He makes a show of getting out of the car. Keeps his back on Harrington when he stretches his arms. Makes a show of that, too. He settles himself against the hood. Right in the middle. Doesn’t leave space for Harrington to. Squeeze in. 

He crosses his arms, and looks at Harrington, finally, who’s biting his lip like he’s one act of defiance away from. Chopping someone’s head off, or something, and. He feels—triumphant. Feels it rushing through his veins like liquid gold, simmering under his skin like molten amber. 

Matches Harrington’s eyes. Amber set on fire. 

They’re a match. 

‘Rained yesterday,’ he says offhandedly. Circles his wrist in his fingers. The way Harrington had, all these nights ago. ‘Think I’ll sit it out, tomorrow. The practice. Give my wrist a break.’ 

He knows. He spots the exact moment Harrington. Gets it. 

The sun ain’t got a thing on the fire in Harrington’s eyes. Billy wants to. Burn. He wants to burn. 

‘Your wrist,’ Harrington says. Slowly. Almost. Almost careful about it. ‘The one you broke. On your own. Falling off your bike.’ He steps in front of Billy. Leans in, one hand perched on the hood. Making sure he’s all Billy can see. All Billy can think about. ‘That’s what you said, right? Don’t want you making any mistakes.’ 

Billy needs a second to. Raise his eyes. Stare at the sky. Still there. It’s not just Harrington, not all of it. The sky’s still there. ‘Sneaked out to go to a concert,’ he says on an inhale, and when Harrington doesn’t budge, doesn’t move, doesn’t. Doesn’t blink, ‘My dad. Wasn’t happy about it,’ he breathes on the exhale. Waits. For the bang. 

It comes. Comes in the form of Harrington, clenching his jaw so hard the veins on his neck bulge, and pulse, and etch out something dangerous. 

The sun hits his eyes, and the fire flares up, and. Billy. He wants to burn. 

He pushes. 

‘That scar, too. Caught me lighting a smoke on the stove.’ He grins, wild and giddy and mad with excitement. Feels every word buzzing around in his mouth, burning his gums, like mouthwash, _spit it out_. They keep pouring out. He’s let them burn him for so long. _Spit it out_. ‘Kept holding me against the eye. Saying how I—’ he scoffs, a laugh, bitter like the last drag, ‘I’d learn my lesson. Never touch those things again.’ 

Harrington’s eyes flit to the flash of red peeking from his pocket. They’ve been sharing smokes for months. Neil didn’t win. Not this one. 

When he looks back up again, Billy’s waiting for him. He wonders—he wonders if Harrington’s. Proud. Of him. For winning, just this once. Getting burned. Choosing to keep burning. 

It doesn’t feel impossible. Not with the way Harrington’s eyes are glinting, golden sunlight trapped in their fire. 

‘You’re careless,’ he growls, and Billy. Barks out a laugh. He wants to double over. Lay on the ground. 

He wants Harrington all over him. 

He wants to scream, _it’s not my fault, I don’t know any better, show me_ , but he’s all out of words. Nothing’s burning in his mouth anymore. It’s just ashes. 

‘Yeah.’ He pulls out a cigarette. Might as well. He blinks up at Harrington, glowing like a hundred forest fires, and maybe. Maybe it doesn’t make a difference, the sky and the sun and everything around them. Maybe that’s the only thing that matters. 

He pulls out one more. 

Harrington takes it for the truce it is. His whole body deflates, shoulders not so hunched anymore. Not gearing up for a punch with Neil’s name on it. 

He steps back. Lights his own smoke. ‘You never told me if you’re in,’ he mumbles around the filter. Smoke curls out of his mouth, dissolving in the air. ‘About next week.’ 

‘Haven’t even met _Vicky’s_ sister, King Steve.’ 

Harrington throws him a smirk, lopsided and sly. ‘You think I’d set you up with a butterface? I wouldn’t do that to my best guy.’ 

Billy scoffs, coughs, anything to drown down the need to. Reach out. Beg. _Come back_. _Come closer_. _Tell me again_. ‘Don’t let Tommy hear that, Stevie. It’ll be my body you find down there one of these days,’ he says, nods his head to the open mouth waiting for him. It’s still here, too. The sky, and the water below, and Harrington. That’s all there is. 

Harrington hums under his breath, clouded in smoke, gleaming golden under the sun. He takes three steps, and he’s right at the edge, standing still, almost. Admiring his kingdom. Billy watches as his jaw sets into something firm. Determined. Watches as Harrington pulls the cigarette out of his mouth, throws it down. An offering. To get swallowed by the beast. Like maybe that’ll feed the hunger. Like maybe that’ll save a soul. 

Like maybe. Maybe it’ll save Billy, too. 

He snaps out of his trance. Obliterates anything between them, the distance, the space, the air, in a couple of strides, and Billy’s almost expecting it, the hand on his neck, the thumb tracing a line along his jaw, the nail digging behind his ear, almost, but he’s not expecting Harrington’s breath against his cheek. Isn’t expecting it to be ragged, and quick, and uneven, matching Billy’s, matching the way Billy’s breath has been ragged, and torn, and halfway there, ever since his eyes first settled on the King. 

Isn’t expecting Harrington’s voice to be ragged, too, two words away from crumbling, when he leans in, closer, closer, whispers, ‘I think Tommy knows I got a soft spot for you, heartbreaker.’ 

The last word bleeds into a chuckle, half-mad and vicious. He plants a hand in the middle of Billy’s chest, right between the lungs, pushes. Just a bit. Just to feel that breath he keeps stealing under his fingertips. Billy’s expecting that, and then Harrington smiles, and bites his lip, and gets in his car. 

Leaves. 

Billy’s expecting that, too. 

* * *

The sound of the car horn cuts through whatever pop bullshit Max’s blasting in her room. 

(He knows _exactly_ what it is. Would never. _Ever_. Admit to it, but. 

_do you believe in love?_

He’s been humming it under his breath for hours. Took a shower. Thought about Harrington. Took one more. Kept humming it through it all. 

_do you believe it’s true?)_

Billy _hates_ it. Hates it while thinking about Harrington. Hates it while emptying every bottle of perfume he’s ever bought on himself. Hates it. 

Hates it while he’s. Getting ready. For his date. 

He’ll give Max so much shit about it tomorrow. The absolutely fuckin’ jubilant mood he’s in makes him kinda hope Max. Won’t mention he knows the song, too. 

Kinda. He knows Max will. 

He kinda. Doesn’t give a fuck. 

He’s got a date. He’s waiting for him outside. His date. Harrington came to. Pick him up. Insisted on it. Billy stared, and stared, and blinked a couple of times, and said _whatever rocks your boat_ , and said _King Steve_ , and said _don’t be late_. 

Harrington’s on time. He’s. He’s on time. 

He’s on time, and he’s having a fight with the horn, except. 

Except he’s not, not anymore. The horn’s not drilling through Billy’s brain, the doorbell fucking is, and Neil— _Neil’s_ here, which. Which means— 

He rushes through the door just on time to catch the end of Harrington’s languid _-ick up your son, sir_. 

Billy’s dead. Harrington doesn’t know it yet, but. Neil does. Billy does, too. 

He’s dead. 

He steps in. Might as well. ‘This is Steve, dad,’ he says, the two words rolling off his tongue, unfamiliar. Effortless. ‘Harrington. I’ve told you about Steve. We play basketball together. At school.’ 

Neil hums. Makes sure Billy knows he’s revving up the chainsaw. Getting ready for blood. 

‘Pleasure to finally meet my son’s friend, mr. Harrington,’ he pounces, throws a hand out for Harrington to take. Places his other on top of Harrington’s when he does, giving his little performance. Doing his routine. He’s been teaching it to Billy for years, in more ways than one. _Establish dominance_. _Show ‘em who’s the boss, son_. ‘I haven’t had the pleasure of meeting your father yet, but I hear he’s a remarkable man.’ 

Billy watches helplessly, _do you believe in love_ , as Neil tightens his grip. Almost imperceptibly. Almost unnoticeably, if you don’t know what you’re looking for. Billy does, has known for years, so. He watches. Watches as Harrington doesn’t back down. Keeps one corner of his mouth tilted upwards, _I’m onto you_. 

‘I’m sure he’ll be delighted to meet you, sir. I know he’ll simply _adore_ Billy. He knows how special your son is to me,’ Harrington drawls around the smile plastered on his face, every word one more nail on Billy’s coffin. Sealing his fate. 

Harrington hasn’t. He hasn’t backed down. His hand’s still squeezed in Neil’s death grip, and Harrington hasn’t backed down. 

Harrington’s picking him up for their date, and Billy’s _special_ , and Neil’s got a box under his bed, takes it out every Friday, right after coming back from work, unlocks it, takes the Colt 1911 out, spends his afternoon rubbing and cleaning and making it shiny, leaves his door wide open, for everyone to see, for _Billy_ to see, in case he forgets who runs this circus, and. 

The waterfall of black stars behind his eyelids makes him sway, a bit. He leans on the door frame. 

Neil lets Harrington free, steps back inside. He turns his body to the side, just a bit, and just like that, Billy’s in his field of vision. The black stars explode into fireworks. 

‘I’m pleased my son’s associating with someone like you, mr. Harrington. If your father’s reputation is anything to go by, I’m confident you’re a good influence on Billy. Isn’t that right, son?’ He throws the last word like it’s one of the bullets he keeps stashed away in his little box. Shoot to kill. 

Billy clears his throat. Pushes away from the door, makes it his mission to steady himself without any support. ‘Yeah,’ he croaks, raspy and unpracticed, and then, ‘yeah,’ he repeats, and it’s firm this time, and that’s a victory. ‘Yeah, Steve’s. He’s good for me.’ 

Harrington smiles at him, and Billy thinks that’s some kind of bullet, too. He thinks he’d find red blooming on his chest if he looked. 

It’s not the worst way to go. 

Neil shatters it. ‘I see you haven’t picked up your dates yet.’ Billy hears the question it’s meant to be. 

Harrington’s eyes shift back to Neil, and he gives him a smile, too, and there’s something lifeless in it. Nothing like the one he gave Billy. That one was soaked in sunlight, bright and saturated and alive. Fired like a bullet, lodged right beside Billy’s heart. A match to light the gasoline pouring through his veins. 

Billy’s on fire. 

‘You know how girls are, sir. You give them a week to get ready for a date, they’ll complain it’s not enough.’ Neil chuckles, and his knuckles loosen against the handle, and Billy thinks, hopes, that’s it, they’re good to go, except. 

‘They’ll spend hours fixing their hair, getting pretty for their date.’ Harrington drawls, and he’s not. Looking at Neil anymore. His eyes are roaming Billy’s face, stopping at his hair, like he _knows_. Like Harrington knows Billy spent all morning trying to get every curl just. Right. _I’m onto you._

He smirks, the asshole, and. Billy gets it. Harrington knows. He knows. 

He blinks, and Harrington coughs, breaks the spell. He’s looking almost. Flustered, strawberry pink dusting the planes under his eyes. ‘We really should get goin’, though.’ He takes a step backwards, nods at Neil. ‘Shouldn’t keep the ladies waitin’.’ 

Neil laughs out something tinny. ‘You’re right about that, mr. Harrington. Billy’ll meet you at the car in a moment.’ 

Harrington’s eyes bounce between them, Billy half-hidden behind Neil. Nods. ‘Movie starts in thirty,’ he says, and it’s tinged with something unrelenting, almost defiant, and. He leaves. 

Billy’s holding back his breath like it’s the last thing he’ll ever do. He never knows. 

Neil turns to face him. He looks almost. Pleased. ‘I’m glad you’re finally hanging out with the right crowd, Billy. Your friend is a very responsible young man. I hope you’ll pick up one or two things on how to treat people with respect from him.’ 

Billy almost. Has the urge to tell him about Byers. About Harrington holding him up. Spitting the one word that belongs to Billy at him. 

He thinks Neil might. Like Harrington even more. 

He bites down on his tongue. His mouth floods with the familiar taste of blood. Acidic and tangy and warm. He gulps it down. He’s been learning that trick for years. ‘Yes, sir,’ he mutters. ‘May I be excused?’ 

Neil regards him for a beat. His eyes linger on Billy’s hair, almost like he. Knows, too. ‘I’m expecting you back by midnight.’ He steps back, holds the door open for Billy. 

Billy waits for the sound of it latching closed behind him. It never comes. 

Neil follows him all the way to Harrington’s car. 

* * *

Harrington gives him a _look_ , pointed, knowing, the moment Billy’s in the car. ‘All good?’ 

Billy can still feel Neil’s eyes on them. The porch light drowns everything in a sickening white. He feels it stinging right between his eyes. ‘Drive on, your Majesty,’ he says, lets his head fall back against the seat, lets his eyes fall closed. 

He lets himself breathe. 

* * *

‘So,’ Harrington drawls halfway to _Vicky’s_ , ‘when’re we telling your old man my dad hasn’t set a foot in Hawkins since last Easter, huh?’ He scoffs in amusement, like it’s a joke, like he’s the only one getting it. ‘And he wouldn’t deign to blink at his direction. Daddy dearest doesn’t associate with trailer trash.’ 

Billy—keeps his eyes shut. Swallows around something sour. ‘Why’re you talking to me, then, King Steve?’ 

There’s this awful, screeching sound, and Billy has no idea where it’s coming from, and then he looks at Harrington, and. His foot’s on the break, and Billy can almost taste the burning rubber on the asphalt. 

Harrington. Stops the car. In the middle of the road. 

And. Like. It’s Hawkins, where cars are outnumbered by cows on a good day, but it’s also Valentine’s day, and even the roads of a backwards town like Hawkins are packed, and. 

Harrington pushes into his space, and Billy has been letting it gnaw at his insides for years, that rage, the kind that makes you shake with it, he can recognize it in an instant, except. Harrington’s grip on his jaw has nothing unsteady in it. Just rage. He digs the pad of his thumb under the bone. Keeps Billy where he wants him to, doesn’t leave him space to move. 

‘’m not like my father, heartbreaker. You’re not like yours.’ He’s snarling. Teeth bared. Eyes ablaze. 

Less human, more beast. 

There’s a line of cars behind them, an infernal choir of horns and shouts, and Billy wants to cry, wants to scream, wants to say _you’re more like your father than you think you are_ , wants to say _you’re more like mine, too_ , wants to shout _go, fuckin’ go, go, **go**_ , wants— 

He wants more, except Harrington’s taking his hand back, and Billy wants it back, wants more, wants— 

‘We’re different, you and I. Don’t ever forget that,’ Harrington says, staring straight ahead, at the empty road stretching out before them. Doesn’t spare a glance to the wail of the cars behind him when he takes his foot off the break. 

King fuckin’ Steve. 

He starts the car. 

* * *

Turns out, Vicky’s sister’s hot. Hotter than Vicky, really, and that’s. That’s something. 

Like. If Billy’s dick was working the way it’s supposed to. He’d be cocked and ready. He turns to Harrington instead, finds him already looking, waiting, an eyebrow raised in a silent question. Mouth tilted to the sky, _see? Toldja._

Between _we’re different, you and I_ , and Harrington setting him up with the prettier sister, Billy thinks. He might be missing something. 

He rolls his eyes. Harrington wants to play, so. Billy’s playing. 

He’s not sure what the rules are, or. If there are any. 

He thinks. Maybe. It wouldn’t make any difference. He’s on the losing side. 

So. He plays the game. Gets out of the car to open the door for their dates. Gives them both a once-over, not really looking, not really seeing, licks his lips, because. That’s how this works. That’s how Billy gets extra points. 

Vicky’s a blonde. Her sister’s a brunette, and Vicky. She’s dirty blonde, has the light blue of the sky before dawn in her eyes, has a jaw too sharp. Billy doesn’t. He doesn’t know what to do with any of that. 

He moves to the back with Vicky’s sister, makes space for Harrington’s date in the passenger seat. It’s rolling off him in waves, the need to get his knuckles bloody, scream, _he’s mine_ , _back off_ , _mine first_ , the need to. To bite Harrington, or punch him, anything to feel his skin under his fingernails, to keep it there, _mine_. 

Harrington purrs _lookin’ great, sweetheart_ , shoots Vicky with a look, all burning embers and promises. It makes Billy’s skin crawl, and ache. Stretch thin across his bones, and Vicky. Fuckin’. Throws her head back, golden cascade of hair flogging the seat, _thwap_. 

Billy. He wants to get his hands in it. Grab two handfuls. _Tug_. Tug, and pull, until he comes back up with two fistfuls, until _Vicky’s_ not laughing anymore. 

He wants Harrington to look at him that way. 

He catches Harrington’s eye in the mirror. Feels too much like he just. Got caught instead. Harrington gives him a smile, small and sharp and dangerous, like he knows, like he can see it all, the tightrope Billy’s walking on. Like he knows he’ll be the wind that knocks him over. He gives him a smile, and Billy can feel the dagger twisting in the wound, lodged in the space between his ribs. 

Harrington reaches one arm, starts petting Vicky’s dirty blonde curls. Slow, languid, like time’s on his side and no one else exists, just him and his girl, except. 

He’s not looking at _Vicky_. 

Billy doesn’t know what to do with that, either. He’s got the rest of the night to figure it out. 

The Hawk’s playing _My Bloody Valentine_ , because Hawkins is filled to the brim with horny teenagers fixing to get it on while a Michael Myers wannabe hands out valentine’s chocolates with a blood filling, just like Harrington said. 

Vicky and her sister, whose name Billy. Refuses to remember, or. Learn, they. Let out two suspiciously, borderline terrifyingly similar shrieks when they get a feel on where Harrington’s taking them for their ideal romantic date. _Just_ like Harrington said. Chicks and horror flicks. 

Billy’s one high-pitched _oh, I’m so excited!_ away from calling the whole thing off, going his merry way, Vicky’s sister be damned, except. The prospect of going back to that house in Cherry Lane, to Neil waiting for him, that little box stashed away under his bed, counting down the seconds until it comes out, it’s. 

There’s a voice in the back of his mind. Says shit like. Like, _suck it up_. _‘s just one night_. Shit like, _don’t be a pussy. Don’t prove Neil right._

Shit like. Like, _you’re here, and he’s here, and he can’t keep his eyes off you, and you know that because you can’t keep yours off him, you know it the same way you know he’ll kill you if you let him, the same way you know you will, will rip your chest open with your own two hands if he asks, will hand him a chisel, let him carve out a space shaped like him inside you, let him climb in, if only he asked, he just has to ask, he just has to—_

Harrington goes to buy the tickets, and Billy lets the sea of screaming teenagers drown out the voice. Just in time. The game’s still on, and Billy. He’s got a part to play. 

‘Place is packed,’ Harrington half-shouts, half-gestures when he comes back, like they’re not standing in the eye of the cyclone, bloodthirsty Indiana teens parting around them like the Red Sea. ‘Could only find two coupl’a seats apart.’ He sounds. Angry. Like maybe that. Somehow. Interferes with his plans. 

He takes out his wallet, hands a couple of bills to his date, _go buy us something to eat, baby, wouldja,_ and Billy takes his eyes off him for one second, to watch Vicky and her stupid sister walk to the line for popcorn, and twizzlers, and. Soda, or something, because that’s what normal teenagers do, and. 

The next thing he knows, there’s a hand wrapped around his wrist, the left one, the one Neil— 

The next thing he knows, the hold on his wrist drags him across the room, strong enough to keep Billy trapped, not—not strong enough to hurt. 

The next thing he knows, his back’s against blue velvet, and the curtain’s almost hiding them from the world, and Harrington’s tugging at the earring swaying, back-and-forth, back-and-forth, on Billy’s ear. 

He feels Harrington’s breath on his lips. Watches as his chest expands with every panting inhale, and when Billy parts his lips, lets Harrington’s name, his _name_ , drip out of his mouth, _Steve_ , like a spoonful of honey, he watches as Harrington’s next breath comes out on a grunt, like Billy landed a hit. 

‘Steve,’ he decides he’ll say it a lot, now that he can, now that he knows what it gets him, a punched out grunt and the prettiest set of eyes he’s ever locked on all dark and wide for him, ‘tell me.’ 

Harrington. Shifts his palm, just a bit, and that’s enough, enough to cup Billy’s face in it. Billy feels the earring trapped between them, flesh-warmed metal pressing against his cheek, and it’s his, but he thinks the mark it leaves will be Harrington’s. He wants it to be. 

There’s a thumb tracing circles on his lobe, the nail pressing on the soft skin there. Billy stitches his lips shut before he can give Harrington a moan to match his grunts. It’s a game. He’s fixing to win. 

Harrington hunts over his face, lets his eyes run a few laps, eyes to mouth and back up again, before he does what Billy asked him, begged him to. _Tell me_. ‘You look real pretty, heartbreaker. You really do.’ 

He doesn’t need to say _prettier than them_. Billy hears it anyway. 

He wants his voice back, enough to let it curl around Harrington’s name again, enough to say _just say the word_ , _let’s ditch ‘em_ , _you just have to ask_ , except. He feels Harrington sliding something into his jacket, and when Billy traces the edges of it he almost cuts himself on the paper, on the two tickets, one for Billy, one for his date, Billy-and-Vicky’s-sister, and Harrington mutters _go get ‘em, tiger_ , before walking away, leaves Billy panting and halfway to irreversibly hard for all the wrong reasons in his pants. 

Before he gets swallowed by the sea. 

Billy wants to get swallowed, too. 

* * *

Objectively, the movie’s trash. 

It’s old, the way everything in Hawkins seems to be, and Billy’s seen it a few times before, had a set of eyes looking up at him from between his legs a couple of ‘em. 

None of them could hold a candle to Harrington’s. 

Billy’s had boys making a lollipop out of his dick, and none of them ever. Ever. Got him there so fast as Harrington calling him _pretty_ did. 

Billy can recognize a problem when he sees it. He’s good at that. Pinpointing the problem. Ignoring it. Learning to work around it. 

He can also glare at it, from two rows behind and to the left, and like. Admittedly, that’s not. The best coping mechanism, but. Harrington’s got his face half-buried in _Vicky’s_ curls, half-turned to Billy, and Billy’s a pair of tits short, but. He kinda. Can’t help it. _Vicky_ makes it easy. 

He wonders how it’d feel. To have Harrington’s nose buried in his curls. Kinda wants to walk over to them. Take one strand of his hair, put it next to Harrington’s girl, one dirty blonde blending with the other, until you can’t tell which is which, like, _see? It’s the same_. _Pick me instead_. 

Vicky’s sister has a death grip on his arm, nails long and stiff and manicured digging into flesh with every jump scare, which. Gives Billy an excuse, too. For every time he flexes his arm, fingers itching to reach out. For every time Harrington’s mouth closes around a _baby_ , face half-hidden by curls, nosing at the space under _Vicky’s_ jaw, whispering, pressing his lips to her neck, looking— 

Looking at Billy. 

He almost. Lunges out of his seat when Harrington gets up. Holding _Vicky_ by the hand. Fumbling his way around the dark, the blood on the screen bathing him in red. _Killer_. 

Harrington leaves, hand-in-hand with his girl, and he doesn’t. Throw a glance at Billy’s direction. 

Billy. Feels like those scenes in movies, where the cue stick goes past the felt, tears the cloth in half. Ruins the pool table. He’s cracked open, raw and naked. 

Harrington’s ruining him. 

He lasts all of five minutes before he’s jumping out of his seat, _just goin’ out for a smoke, sweetheart, be back in a sec_ , rolling off his tongue like he’s done this a thousand times. He doesn’t. Go looking for Harrington, but. 

The bathroom’s not his first choice for a smoke, either. 

He doesn’t go looking for Harrington, but he. He finds him. 

The door meets the wall with a soft _thump_ , because Billy isn’t looking for Harrington, but he kinda hopes he finds him anyway, and. 

He’s not alone. Of course he’s not. Billy. He knew Harrington wouldn’t. Be alone, and yet. The head of dirty blonde curls moving, up and down and back up again, between his legs, it’s. It punches a gasp out of Billy, and Harrington catches it, raises his eyes, meets it with a smile, almost. Like he knew it was coming. Like maybe he was hoping for it. 

Billy’s heaving, breath after breath after breath, a statue framed by the door of the bathroom, still open. Anyone could walk in, except. Billy did. 

Harrington follows Billy’s eyes, locked on the back of _Vicky’s_ head, up and down and back up again, dirty blonde curls that look. Almost like— 

‘Gotcha.’ It’s at the end of a moan, high and breathy and involuntary, Billy could swear, he could swear Harrington never meant to hand that over, and. Harrington raises his eyes back to Billy. Threads his fingers through dirty blonde curls, the wrong ones. 

The wrong ones. 

Starts thrusting, sweat beading on his forehead like he’s running a marathon, like he’s running for his life, head almost. Thrown back, but Harrington steadies himself, keeps his eyes straight ahead, where Billy’s leaning on the door, trembling like. Like that’s his. That’s his moment. Harrington, panting above him. Hands buried where they’re meant to. 

He’s hard. Throbbing in his jeans, and when he slides his hand lower, squeezes himself through the fabric, the way he would if he was the one on his knees, Harrington—he locks on the movement, on Billy’s clenched jaw, the way he’s trying to swallow down the hunger. Billy knows he’s not doing a good job of it. Too gone to fight it. 

‘Yeah,’ Harrington groans, raspy and frantic and broken, hips moving desperately, eyes two pools of darkness eating Billy alive, ‘yeah, sweetheart, jus’ like that,’ and Billy’s listening, he’s _listening_. He knows what it means. 

He lifts his chin, half in defiance, half in despair, all of him throbbing with a need setting his skin alight, presses the flat of his palm against himself, against the bulge in his jeans, all for Harrington. 

Harrington doubles over like he’s been sucker-punched, and he comes, moaning, drawn-out and sweet, all for Billy, all his. It feels like a wave crashing. 

Billy doesn’t. Wait for the damage control. He runs. 

He runs back to his seat, and his date, Vicky’s sister, whatever her name is, looks up at him, with her brown eyes, and her chestnut hair, and all the right parts, and Billy—he’s still riding the crest, pulse beating to the sound of Harrington’s moan, _all mine, all mine, all mine_ , so. 

He pries her legs open. Slides two fingers in, lets her fuck her tongue into his mouth, tastes it on his tongue when she comes. 

He doesn’t let her touch him. 

It doesn’t belong to her. 

* * *

Harrington’s sitting across him on the table. Throwing fries at him. 

Asshole. 

Hasn’t said a word to Billy. Just. Sits there. Fuckin’ stupid Cheshire grin taking over his stupid face. One arm around his _girl_. Throwing fries at Billy with his other. Like he didn’t just come down that bitch’s throat because of Billy. Looking at Billy. 

It’s. Billy doesn’t know how to deal with it. So. He throws fries back at him. Dips them in his milkshake for good measure. Watches Harrington dodge almost all of them, the asshole. Can’t even be decent enough to stay still and get a faceful of vanilla-flavoured fries. 

Billy manages to. Hit Harrington right on the cheek, and Harrington throws his head back, laughs, shaking with it, eyes glinting with it, and Billy. 

He thinks it’s the best Valentine’s date he’s ever had. He thinks it’s worth it. 

* * *

Their dates live a few blocks west of Billy’s, and it doesn’t make any sense, when Harrington passes by Billy’s street, keep driving, shrugs at Billy’s furrowed brows, _we’re dropping the girls off first, Hargrove, it’s called being a gentleman, look it up_ , but. 

Sticking his tongue down his date’s tonsils for goodbye while Harrington’s face is doing something amused and knowing next to him doesn’t make any sense either, so. 

Being alone with Harrington in his car does. It’s the first thing that’s made sense in a while. They’re driving in the dark. Surrounded by it, just the trees, and the darkness, and them, two shadows, trespassing. 

Billy closes his eyes. 

It’s easier to forget like that. Where they’re going. Where Harrington’s taking him. Back to his cage. Fuckin’ Cinderella and her pumpkin coach. 

There’s a huff next to him, and for a second Billy wonders if he’s been saying all that aloud, except Harrington raises the volume, and. 

_your love is like a tidal wave_

_spinning over my head_

Billy snaps his head so fast it cracks. Harrington’s got his eyes on the road, like he’s worried about roadkill, like he’s ever worried about anything, hands drumming on the wheel, _you’re the right kind of sinner_ , a smile trenching lines over his face. 

Billy wants to sink his claws in it. Stretch the corners till they’re bloody and aching and distorted, not a face anymore. Just a mask. 

He wants—he wants to rip it apart. 

He wants to feel it under his tongue, that smile. He wants to rip Harrington apart. 

The radio’s mocking him in the background, _you’re a heartbreaker_ , like it knows. Which one of them it belongs to, that title. It’s not Billy’s. 

He knows he’s been staring at Harrington, at his stupid hands, his stupid smile, for too long. He’s too tired to hide. ‘Dude,’ he mutters, to break himself out of the spell. To make sure he’s alive. Still here. ‘Harrington. Change that, will ya?’ 

Harrington lets a _dream maker, love taker, doncha mess around with me_ go by before he speaks around his smile, still there, putting pressure on the knife lodged in Billy’s chest. Pushing. In, in, in. 

‘What, and ruin the moment? Nah, I don’t think so, _heartbreaker_. I like your eyes on me.’ 

It’s slow, sticky like molasses, and Billy. He always thought the first bullet he’d take would be Neil’s. He’s never been shot before. He thinks. That was it. 

The protest dies halfway up his throat, _I don’t—_ , when Harrington’s hand lands on his shoulder, curves around the point where it meets his neck, slithers higher, until it’s resting on the back of Billy’s neck, pads of his fingers rubbing bone, the edge of his spine. Tangling in curls, dirty blonde and messy, and. The right ones. 

‘Hey,’ Harrington cuts him off, cuts his words in half, cuts his breath in half too, voice almost. Soothing. Sweet. ‘’s just me ‘n’ you here, heartbreaker. ‘s okay. We don’t break wrists here.’ 

The memory of Byers, half-suspended in the air, flashes behind his eyes. Blends into Neil, pushing Billy against the wall, the bookcase, the stove. The sound of bones snapping, _crackcrackcrack_. How easy it is. To break something that’s. Not meant to be broken. How it never mends, not really. Not completely. Leaves a trace. Always broken. 

Harrington’s fingers keep moving on his skin. Rubbing circles, tugging at the roots. It’s hypnotic. It’s difficult to focus on. Anything else. On broken bones. On breaking, never putting things back together. 

Billy. Almost. Wants. To get broken. Maybe there are two kinds. Neil’s violence, that breaks and hurts and snaps in half. Maybe this one’s different. It doesn’t hurt, this one. 

It feels. Almost. 

Inevitable. Billy’s been holding himself together for so long. He wants to. 

Let go. 

* * *

Harrington stops a couple of roads away from Billy’s—Neil’s house. Almost like he. Knows it doesn’t make sense. To drop Billy last. 

He pulls his hand away the moment the car’s in park. Like the rules change now. 

Billy murmurs, ‘Steve,’ kinda means _please_ , kinda means _tell me what to do_. Kinda means _you just have to ask_. He doesn’t know how to say any of that, so. 

Harrington’s facing him, finally, _finally_ , something firm and dismissive on the line of his brows. ‘Listen, I’ll. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?’ 

Billy blinks at him for a second before the words sink in. 

He scoffs, a hand already on the handle. He mutters, ‘Sure, King Steve. Tomorrow,’ and he thinks. That’s it. Back to his cage. Just a few minutes till midnight. The slipper’ll turn to dust any moment now. 

Except. 

He doesn’t make it out the door. Harrington’s on him, grabbing his arms. Trapping him between the seat and. His body, eyes hunting over Billy’s face. Billy knows what he finds. He’s too tired to hide it. 

Something softens in the lines around Harrington’s mouth. Like Billy tugged on the bow, and the ribbon got loose. He doesn’t move for a long second, and Billy wants to ask, _what happens now,_ and then. There’s. No need to, because Harrington’s diving in, nosing under his jaw, nuzzling behind his ear. 

Billy. Stays very. Very still. 

Harrington’s grip tightens where his fingers are still wrapped around Billy’s biceps. When he pulls back, he doesn’t go far. Harrington leaves just enough space for their lips to move without touching. Almost. It’s almost something. 

‘I love how you smell,’ Harrington whispers, and Billy can feel the blood spreading. He’s shattering. It’s a deathblow. ‘What is that, it’s like. Something forest-y. Bitter. What is it?’ 

He lets his eyes roam over Harrington’s face, so close he needs to focus on one thing at a time. Right eye. Left. Nose. Lips, lips, lips. ‘Uh. Cedar. I think. The soap. Cedarwood.’ 

‘Cedar.’ Harrington repeats the word, rolls it in his mouth like he’s never heard it before. Like he needs to taste it on his tongue before he swallows it, makes it a part of him. He dives back in, buries his nose under Billy’s curls, where the smell is strong, kept safe under a blanket of gold. ‘I like it,’ he says, lips almost brushing skin, and when Billy shivers, shakes underneath him, Harrington huffs a breath. A laugh. 

There’s a click on his left, and when Harrington draws back this time, the door’s unlocked. Game over. Billy lost. 

‘See ya tomorrow, heartbreaker,’ Harrington says around the grin taking over his face, sliding back to his seat, away, out of Billy’s space. He. He winks. ‘Tell your old man sorry I kept ya out so late, will ya?’ 

Billy’s head is kinda spinning, kinda flying over his body. He nods, he thinks, and then he gets out of the car, he thinks, walks up to his house, Neil’s house, up to his room. He thinks. 

He gets out of his clothes, and he lies in his bed, and he doesn’t think anymore. 

He dreams. 

* * *

Next day’s Wednesday, and Billy wakes up, thinks maybe he dreamt the whole thing up, except. 

Harrington’s waiting for him at school, perched on the hood of his stupid, fancy car, and the memory of his body crushing Billy hits him like a wave breaking on the shore, leaves him dizzy and unmoored, so. 

Probably not a dream. Probably. 

He gets out of his car. Tommy’s tongue is getting reacquainted with Carol’s throat next to them, but she very literally pushes him off her the moment Billy’s within eyeshot. 

Billy can almost hear the _sooo, how was it_ , and Carol’s already twisting a curl around her finger, mouth open, question almost hanging in the air, shovel out and ready for the digging, and then. 

Harrington gives Billy a smile, almost soft, almost sweet. Almost. He motions Billy to come closer. And then a bit more, until the tips of their shoes are kissing. His smile turns wider. ‘Gotchu somethin’.’ 

Billy. Blinks. At the bar of soap Harrington leaves in his hands. 

‘Cedar.’ It sounds so different, coming out of Harrington’s mouth. It’s curled inwards, like a secret shared between them, or. Like one of these words magicians use to put someone to sleep, to wake them up again. Billy’s not sure which one's Harrington going for. 

Harrington taps a finger on the bar. ‘Like the one you use, but. Y’know.’ He leans in. His voice shifts to something almost. Conspiratorial. ‘The good kind.’ 

He doesn’t say _the expensive one_. _The one you can’t afford_. 

He doesn’t say _look how easy it is, to own the things you want_. 

He says, ‘See you inside, man,’ claps Billy on the shoulder, once, walks away. 

‘I take it the date went well then,’ Carol drawls behind him, every word dripping with condescension, and it’s so normal, so familiar, so different from last night, and Billy. 

Can’t help it, flashes her a grin wide, and hysterical, and a bit unhinged. 

The soft look he gets in return makes him think. Maybe she gets it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song they're listening to in the car is 'heartbreaker' by pat benatar for. uhh. obvious reasons, and, quite frankly, i deserve a medal for lasting three whole chapters without using it
> 
> if u wanna like. scream at me about these idiots, i'm on [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/)


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi this is!! a lot longer than it should be!! enjoy

It’s almost too good. 

Coffee and sunshine, that’s what wakes him up. Light creeping under the covers, dark smell punching life into him. 

Covers. Plural. Still winter. Still in Hawkins. 

He cracks one eye open. ‘Fuck you want?’ 

Max is. Hovering. She jumps at his voice, just a bit, caught by surprise, which is. 

She’s in _his_ room. Waking him up. 

It’s too early. 

Max twirls a flame around her finger. She’s fidgeting, and that. That’s never good. Max doesn’t _do_ fidgeting. ‘You’re late,’ she mumbles. 

Billy groans, holds on to the covers that bit tighter. Almost too good. ‘Max. It’s Saturday. Lemme—’ 

‘He says.’ Max cuts off. Whips her head around, towards the door. Open wide. Anyone can walk in. _Here be dragons._ ‘He says you have to. Get up, I don’t know. Don’t shoot the messenger.’ 

Billy hates how small her voice sounds. Max knows when to lower it. Knows when to look behind her back, knows well enough to say _he_. 

Knows well enough not to say _your dad_. 

Billy. Hates it. He’s been letting his skin go rainbow for years to make sure she. Doesn’t need to. To be afraid. To look behind her back. To know when to lower her voice, and yet. 

Neil keeps fuckin’. Breaking everything. 

He groans. Rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He turns to the sun, almost. Instinctively. Searching for it. He hopes. He can trap a ray behind his lids. The world owes him that. 

‘Yeah.’ He fumbles under the bed for a. A shirt, a hair tie, something. Some strength. ‘Yeah, I’m up. Just. Gimme a sec.’ 

Max bites her lip, hasn’t stopped gnawing at it since. _He says_. Her eyes flit to the steam rising from the mug for a second, like she wants to. Offer. An explanation. Her fuckin’. Condolences, or something. Then she nods. Once. Swirls around in a flurry of orange and red and. Fire. 

And like. 

Like hell. Billy won’t let Neil break—that. 

‘Put a fuckin’ coaster next time, fuckface. It leaves _marks_.’ He keeps his voice low, too, almost a drone, and he. He hopes Max can hear _thank you_. Hopes she can hear _I’m sorry_. 

He hopes. She can hear _I got you_. 

Max rolls her eyes, and Billy knows she heard all of it, because her whole face is trembling like she’s holding back the smile she wants to give him, and. 

Billy knows she heard all of it, because Max mutters _suck it up, bitch_ , and Billy hears _I know_ , hears _I’m sorry_. 

Hears _I got you, too_. 

* * *

‘What’re we lookin’ for again?’ 

Neil fixes him with a _look_. ‘Shelf brackets. Small. Metallic.’ Billy can see his clenched fist, corduroys bunched in it. He can see the veins on his dad’s. On _Neil’s_ forehead. ‘And fix your face,’ Neil snarls under his breath. ‘We’re here for your sister.’ 

Billy almost. Says it, _she’s not my sister_. Almost says _wish she was_. _Wish Susie was my mother_. He almost says _maybe that way she’d braid my fuckin’ hair, too, and buy me clothes, and_. _Protect me_. 

He breathes it all out in a sigh. ‘Right. I’ll go look on the other side.’ 

The other side is. The next corridor. Fuckin’ backwards hick place. It’s not even 9am on a Saturday morning, and the white neon is already buzzing over his head in the stupid hardware store. 

Billy. He’s so tired. 

He hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in. Years, probably. The world’s blurry around the edges. He makes out plastic containers overflowing with nails, and screws, and it’s. Giving him ideas. He looks over the stand. On the other side, Neil’s crouched over a crate. Inspecting—something. For Max’s precious shelf. There are sets of screwdrivers on the wall next to him. Their edges look. Sharp enough. It’d be. 

So easy. 

Billy blinks. His fingers are gripping the plastic handle. The lights are flickering on the ceiling. Neil’s polo is soaked in blood. He’s lying on Billy’s feet, mouth open in a silent roar. His last one. Hands gripping his neck, trying to stop the flow. They’re loosening. It’ll be over in a minute. Billy’s still holding the screwdriver. He can hear the blood drip-drip-dripping on the floor. 

He blinks again. Neil’s still crouched over the crate. Just a dream. 

He catches movement out of the corner of his eye, and. Maybe he’s still dreaming. It happens a lot. Harrington in his dreams. 

He’s standing right there, outside the glass window, _Morgan’s Hardware Store, We Can Help You Fix Anything_ , mouth tilted at one corner. Like he knows exactly what Billy was thinking. Like he could see Neil bleeding on the floor, too. 

Billy’s so tired. Maybe he’s still. Sleeping. It happens. Harrington in his dreams. Smiling at him. Reaching out. Touching. It’s always like this. The world around him is fuzzy. Harrington the only clear point. Always, always shining like a beacon in the dark. Drawing Billy in. Fly, meet light. 

It doesn’t happen here, though. Not in the fuckin’. Hardware store. Not with Neil around. 

Harrington tilts his head, motioning him to. _Come here_. He’s not asking. Billy knows that much. 

Maybe not a dream, then. 

Billy moves in a trance. The bell jingling on his way out barely cuts through the haze. It’s just. One of these things Billy just. Knows. The bell jingles when the door opens. Billy’ll come when Harrington asks. Just. One of these things. 

Harrington’s wrapped in his fancy coat. Looks like he just woke up, or. Maybe he never fell asleep in the first place. He looks. Like a vision. Sun-bright and sharp and. Wonderfully, dangerously beautiful. ‘Look alive, wonder boy.’ 

Billy. He thinks he’ll do whatever Harrington wants, anything, anything, but. Maybe he can’t do that. 

He bites down on his jaw, mutters _Harrington—_ , isn’t sure what he’s going for, an apology, a warning, something, and then. Harrington smiles at him, makes the world tremble a bit, makes Billy swallow down whatever was coming after _Harrington_. Makes Billy feel so. Awake. 

Alive. 

The town’s waking up. The street is filling with people, families, kids laughing, and Harrington. He’s standing too close. 

Neil’s in the shop, and Harrington’s standing too close. _Look alive_. 

‘Thought you were avoiding us hicks at any cost.’ Harrington’s voice is sleep-addled, rumbly and deep. Scratching like every word is dragged through gravel. Billy. He’s never heard it before. Not like this. ‘Whatchu doing wasting your Saturday out here, heartbreaker?’ 

Billy. Flinches. Jumps back like he’s been hit by lightning. Might as well. Harrington’s got him hooked on wires. Got him salivating, got his pulse going rabbit in his chest. He’s Pavlov’s dog. Harrington’s. He’s Harrington’s dog. 

‘Harrington,’ he says again. Tries to keep the urgency out of his voice. Kinda. Fails. ‘My dad. Neil’s here.’ 

Harrington angles his head to the side. Studies him, still smiling. ‘So what?’ 

He says it like it’s. Normal. No big deal. Like guys _do_ that here. Look at each other’s lips when they speak. Like it. Happens. 

Billy has to. Remind himself it doesn’t. It doesn’t happen back home, and it doesn’t happen here, and it doesn’t happen to Neil’s son. 

‘You know what. Steve.’ He waits until Harrington’s gaze climbs up, meets his. ‘You _know_ what.’ 

Harrington stumbles back, face going tight. His eyes flit between Billy’s neck. His wrist. He _knows_. He raises his arms in surrender. ‘Hey man, I don’t wanna intrude in your father-bonding time.’ He snickers a bit at the way Billy snarls. Teeth bared. Ready to bite. _Bad dog_. 

‘It’s just.’ He shrugs, like he didn’t just call Billy _man_. Like he didn’t just call Neil. _Father_. ‘Haven’t seen you all week, y’know? I missed ya.’ 

Harrington. Spent all week chasing after Becca Leads. _She used to be a real uggo_ , Tommy said. _But then she grew **these**_ , Tommy said. _Don’t tell Carol I said that_ , Tommy said. Billy doesn’t. Give a single fuck about Becca Leads and her tits, which. Is kinda where the root of the problem is, but. Harrington. Spent all week after her. 

It’s not _Billy’s_ fault. 

‘Yeah, well.’ He keeps his tone light. Indifferent. In case anyone’s watching. In case. Neil— 

Harrington’s nostrils flare at that, and. Well. 

Harrington’s been unlocking him, but. Maybe he’s unlocking himself, too. 

Billy would almost. Laugh at that, a bit, except Harrington’s bowing his head, _heavy is the head that wears the crown_ , and looking at Billy through half-lidded eyes, and Billy can’t. Do anything, because that’s. That’s what all the girls are talking about. King fuckin’ Steve. 

The laugh dies in his throat. The breath dies, too. 

‘Come over later.’ Harrington’s not. Asking, words glued one to the other, gooey and syrupy and hypnotic, an incantation. It’s not a question. Harrington’s casting a spell. 

Billy. Looks over his shoulder. Neil’s at the checkout. He needs. To hurry, he can’t. 

He’s not letting Neil break this, either. 

It feels like he’s fighting a mind full of webs to find the right words. He’s so tired. ‘I can’t,’ he says, and it falls heavy between them, cracking and spitting flames like a flare. His shoulders lift up to meet his ears, to fight the cold. To fight. The look Harrington’s shooting him with. ‘Neil wants me to help put up a shelf for Max, I. I promised.’ 

Harrington’s smile goes sickly sweet. Dangerous. The one that gets girls spreading their legs for him faster than they can say _I don’t do that on the first date_. Like there’ll be a second. ‘And you’re never one to go back on your promises, huh?’ He reaches out, right there, in the middle of the street. Right in front of— 

His hand lands on Billy’s shoulder. Starts brushing away specks of dust from his jacket. Harrington’s coat is. Looks like it’s never been worn before. ‘C’mon, heartbreaker,’ he drawls, lets the word wash over Billy before pushing, ‘I just want us to have a good time. You’re not gonna leave me hangin’, are ya?’ 

Billy. His ears ring when he cuts through the wind, _whoosh_. Rips out of Harrington’s grip so fast Harrington’s arm falls to his side with a thump. A puppeteer without his doll. 

Billy’s not. He’s not a _doll_. Not a girl, not—Harrington can’t show Billy _a good time_ , that’s. 

It doesn’t happen. Not here, not back home, not. Not to Neil’s son. 

‘I can’t,’ he hisses. Kinda means _can’t deal with Neil today_. Kinda means _I can’t be doing that sort of stuff_. 

Kinda means _you get too close_. 

He’s not worried about Neil breaking it anymore. Harrington’s managing fine on his own. 

Harrington. Studies him for a moment, head tilted to the side. Smile half-hidden under strands of hair Billy wantswants _wants_ to get his hands in. Would if he was. A doll. If he had Becca’s tits. 

Harrington studies him, and then he’s not. Looking at Billy anymore. He’s staring at a point behind him, and Billy—he should’ve known, he’s been. Training all his life, to recognize footsteps, to. To be _awake_ , but. 

‘Mornin’ mr. H.’ 

Billy turns around, and Neil. He’s smiling. At Harrington. Not. One of his dangerous ones. Looks. Almost—real. 

‘Mr. Harrington. I was wondering where my son had run off to.’ 

Neil’s holding nails, and screws, all sharp edges, and Billy. Keeps repeating that in his head when Neil turns that smile on him. ‘You ‘bout ready to head back? I got everything we need.’ 

Billy blinks, and when he opens his eyes again Neil is. Still smiling at him, and Harrington’s looking amused as all hell, and that’s. Not how Billy’s dreams go, not ever. 

‘Uh. Sorry I didn’t—’ 

‘Billy.’ Neil spits his name out like it’s rotten in his mouth, but he’s still. Smiling. Holding the bag. Filled with nails. ‘You wanted to greet your friend. Hardly a cause for an apology, don’t you think?’ 

Billy nods, because. That’s his line. That’s how the scene goes. Neil hums, because that’s how the scene goes, and he moves to open the door, and. Harrington. Intercepts him. Fuckin’. Puts himself between Neil and. The car. That’s. That’s not in the script. 

‘Actually,’ Harrington rubs the back of his neck, the picture of fuckin’ deference, ‘I was wonderin’.’ He throws Billy a glance, any trace of meekness wiped out, a switch going off. When he looks at Neil again, the mask is back on. ‘If maybe. Billy could come over, later? We got this,’ he sighs, whole body sagging in resignation. Oh, he’s. He’s real good. ‘Chem test coming up. On Tuesday, and I’m. Hopeless, mr. H.’ He lets out a chuckle. Makes it sound genuine, the absolute asshole. The bow at the top. ‘Billy’s like. Ace at chem. I could really use his help.’ 

Billy tries to speak, but he sounds so. Far away. That’s not how it _goes_ , Harrington’s not playing fair, it’s. He says, ‘Dad, it’s alright, I can help Steve some other time,’ and he wishes, wishes it works, wishes Neil will keep him away, and he. He wishes it won’t. 

Billy’s not a girl, he’s not a doll, but he wants. He _wants_. 

It doesn’t work. Neil cuts him off, uses a few of the nails he just bought on Billy’s coffin. ‘Nonsense. Helping your friend is more important than _this_ , Billy.’ He holds up the bag, nails rattling and clicking and jingling, like Billy needed the reminder. He turns to Harrington, who looks. A _Billy_ away from raising his fist in the air. He looks fuckin’. Triumphant, and that’s. He should be used to winning by now, and yet. ‘My son’d be delighted to be of help, mr. Harrington. You can expect him after dinner.’ 

Harrington. Slithers away like the cat who got the fuckin’ cream. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he says, manages, somehow, around the smuggest grin Billy’s ever seen on someone, ‘you’re a lifesaver, really.’ 

Billy doesn’t even. Have time to appreciate the irony before Harrington’s right there, right in front of him, and he’s. He’s got his back on Neil, and Billy knows that’s something you never, ever do, but. 

Harrington winks, and leans closer, pats Billy on the arm. ‘Now you can.’ 

* * *

They’re done with Max’s shelf by dinner time. They eat dinner. All together. Like a family. Like the family Neil molds them into with every punch he lands. Neil keeps. Smiling. Somehow it’s. More threatening than the box under his bed. 

Neil keeps smiling, and then he puts down his napkin, keeps. Smiling, says, ‘Don’t leave your friend waiting, Billy,’ and. Well. 

He’s ringing Harrington’s doorbell five minutes past nine. Chem books in hand and all. 

Harrington opens the door shrouded in a cloud of smoke. He’s baked. Eyes glazed. Smile soft, and crooked, and a bit too real for Billy’s liking. A bit too— 

He’s blocking the door. ‘I like your hair like this.’ 

Billy. Put them up in a messy kinda thing. He’s here to. Help Harrington with the test. They’re here to study, that’s what Harrington said. Except Harrington also said _a good time_ , and Billy’s still at the door, but Harrington’s already reaching out, messing up his hair some more. Touching. Always—always touching. 

_A good time_. 

‘We gonna study out here or what?’ 

Harrington looks adorably, disarmingly confused for a moment, and then he glances down at Billy’s hands clasping the. The stupid textbook, and he. He giggles. Taking a step back to let Billy in. He. He giggles. 

‘Leave those out here and go join Tommy in the back, ace. Ya need to catch up. We need to get you loosened up some,’ he says around a chuckle, and Billy. Only hears half of it, because. 

‘Hagan here, too?’ 

Harrington looks at him. _Looks_ at him. Kinda amused. Kinda. Knowing exactly what Billy means. Fuckin’ chestnut x-rays piercing through his brain. Unlocking, unlocking, unlocking— 

‘Sure he is. He knows where to score the best kind.’ He moves closer, slides into Billy’s space like he’s meant to be there, eyes hunting over Billy’s face, glinting like he can find everything written there. Maybe—maybe he can. Billy’s so tired. ‘You wanted me all to yourself, heartbreaker?’ 

‘You know I’m here to study, right?’ 

Harrington huffs out a laugh. Shakes his head, like Billy just. Keeps surprising him. Says, ‘C’mere,’ like Billy needs to go anywhere to get _here_ , like Harrington’s not already. _Here_. 

Harrington swirls him around. Slithers two palms up his back, hooks them over Billy’s shoulders. The tips of his fingers brush against skin, and Billy. Almost. Shivers, almost blacks the fuck out when Harrington starts taking off his coat. Starts. Undressing him. 

He fights the shivering. Can’t fight the hitch in his breath when he swallows down air and need and desperation. ‘You got anythin’ to eat? Susie’s not exactly Martha Stewart, and I’m,’ he manages around a cough, ‘I’m starvin’.’ 

It’s like a magic trick. He blinks. Harrington’s in front of him. His eyes don’t look glazed anymore. They’re glowing with. Something dark. Something. Hungry. 

‘Me too.’ 

* * *

Tommy brought the good stuff. 

They end up sprawled on Harrington’s couch. Well. Billy’s on the couch. Munching on Lay’s vinegar from the bowl Harrington dropped on his lap. To keep his mouth full. To keep his hands occupied. 

Harrington’s on the couch, too. On Billy’s side. In Billy’s fucking space. Stealing chips from Billy. The couch is. The size of a small island. Maybe even. Medium-sized. Harrington has. No reason sitting this close. 

Tommy’s. Not on the couch. He’s liquified on the armchair. Harrington’s throne. Feet dangling on the side. He’s. Stealing glances at the two of them. On the couch. Sitting. So much closer than necessary. 

Harrington wanted to put on a movie. Billy’s so tired, and the buzz is way too good, and his mind is cotton-candy fuzzy, but. 

Harrington’s got them watching _Christine_. Harrington said— 

_You know how chicks get with horror flicks_ , that’s what he said. _They’ll be rubbing up on us_. That’s. That’s what Harrington said. It’s— 

Billy keeps his mouth full. Keeps his hands occupied. He’s. Hyper-aware of Harrington next to him. He thinks he’s imagining it. That he’s scooting closer. Closing in on Billy. Chicks and horror flicks, that’s what Harrington said. 

He thinks he’s imagining it. When Harrington lets his head fall on the back of the couch with a thud, jaw angled towards Billy, a point of pressure on his shoulder. He’s almost. Slotted into the hollow of his neck. Breath licking at Billy’s skin, fiery. Steady. Painful. An invisible hand pulling at the hair on the back of his neck, making it stand up like it’s trying to get away from the slow death it’s been dealt with. 

Billy could. He could just. Raise his arm. Cup the back of Harrington’s head. Push. Push him closer. Press him down, until the pieces are forced into place. Glued together. Harrington’s lips on his neck. Breathing life into him. Taking it back with every press of skin against skin. 

How it’s meant to be. How. How Billy. Wants. Wants. Wants it to— 

Arnie says _show me_ , and the car lights up her eyes, and Harrington. Chuckles in his ear, and Billy. Almost. Jumps out of his seat. Out of his skin. Sending Lay’s flying all over Harrington’s overpriced carpet. 

Almost. 

He’s losing his mind. Harrington sags against him, brings one hand up to cup Billy’s knee like he’s ready to drive stick, and Billy’s so tired, and he’s losing his mind, and Harrington. Pushes him over the edge. ‘This one’s my favorite.’ It’s just a whisper, raspy and sluggish and meant just for two. Meant to destroy. ‘Reminds me of you, y’know. With your car.’ 

Billy keeps. Dead still. Turns to the side to face Harrington smiling up at him. Licks his lips just to see Harrington follow him, just to see his eyes go dark, all for Billy. He thinks. Absurdly, if he was. Biting a chip. Maybe Harrington would grab the other edge, meet him in the middle Lady and the fuckin’ Tramp style. 

He’s read the signs. It’s a minefield. _Tread lightly_. He stomps on it.‘’m not in love with my car, Harrington.’ 

Harrington’s fingers tighten around his knee. Nails digging into flesh, looking for bone and blood and marrow. ‘No,’ he laughs, ‘no, yeah, I. I know.’ 

* * *

Harrington. Falls asleep. Slumped all over him. Billy can feel his lungs expanding with every intake. 

He. Stops breathing for a couple seconds. Just enough to tune into Harrington’s rhythm. 

Their breaths are matching now. In and out. In. And out. 

* * *

When the credits roll over, Tommy stretches on Harrington’s throne, joints crack-crack-cracking like he hasn’t slept on a mattress in years. He nods towards Harrington, or Billy, or. They’re blurring into one another. It’s hard to tell. ‘Don’t wake him. He needs the rest.’ 

Billy throws him a _look_ , kinda wants to say _he and I both_ , kinda wants to say _your geriatric ass is bound to wake him up anyway_ , kinda wants to say _I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t, not ever. I’d never break it_. 

Kinda wants to ask if he can stay. He wants to. He wants to stay here all night. All day, too. Getting a crick in his neck, feeling his limbs go numb, ants crawling over his legs, his arms. Into his brain. Wants to stay here, keep listening to Harrington’s breathing, feeling the ghost of it haunting his skin. He wants— 

He literally fuckin’— _extricates_ himself from under Harrington, almost. Draped all over him by now, the image of his octopus-hugging sleeping shape burned forever into Billy’s mind. Harrington makes a noise, makes like he’s grabbing for something. Someone, and Billy. Kinda loses his mind a bit more, because Harrington’s. Searching for _him_. 

‘Pass me that.’ He nods at the blanket at Tommy’s feet. He catches it mid-air. ‘Go on. I’ll be there in a sec.’ 

Tommy shakes his head, huffs in amusement, but he. He does what he’s told. Billy. Kinda. Wants to hug him for it. 

Tommy’s gone, and he’s left alone, and it feels. Almost forbidden, being here on his own. Like he’s trespassing on. Something. It feels almost sacred, just him and Harrington and his steady breathing. 

Billy unfolds the blanket, drapes it over Harrington, slowly. Carefully. He doesn’t do that, Billy. He’s not slow. He’s not. Careful, not ever. He doesn’t go around breaking things, but. He doesn’t mind it. Broken things. He’s never careful. 

It feels important, now. _Tread lightly_. 

Harrington’s eyelids flutter like they’re trying to fight the gravity pulling them down, and Billy feels the shame dripping over him like pig’s blood, like he’s Carrie and this is his prom, because boys—boys don’t _do_ that, they don’t let boys fall asleep on them, don’t skip breaths to become one, don’t say _be there in a sec_ just to spend that second pledging their faith to the boy pressing a knife in their heart, they don’t— 

Billy’s arms are hanging limp on each side, and Harrington reaches out, every movement dragged down by sleep, hooks two fingers around a thumb, lets his eyes fall closed again. ‘G’night, heartbreaker.’ 

Billy closes his hand around them, those two fingers, just for a second, one last sacrifice. ‘Sleep tight.’ 

He slips away before the voice screaming at him to stay starts making any more sense. 

* * *

Tommy’s slumped against stone when Billy finds him. Smoke curling out of his mouth on every exhale. Waiting. 

Billy gulps down something dry and hopes it doesn’t show. ‘We goin’ or what?’ 

He’s halfway down the path, thinking maybe, maybe he can get away with it, when Tommy grabs his elbow, turns him around on his feet. 

‘What?’ 

Tommy rolls his eyes at him. That. Doesn’t happen. When Billy growls, and snarls, and bites, people. Listen. Tommy just. Rolls his eyes. He looks. Fond, almost. Buzzed out of his mind, and kinda sad, but. 

‘Don’t make me choose sides,’ he says, and Billy feels every word falling on his skin like hail. ‘Just. I love him, you know that, but you’re my friend, too. Don’t make me have to choose, alright?’ 

Billy. He’s not sure why he lowers his voice before speaking. Not like anyone else is awake at this time, anyway, but. ‘’s not like that,’ he mutters, and he hopes it’s true. He hopes it’s not. 

Tommy. Fuckin’. Throws his head back. Laughs. Claps him on the shoulder, already walking away. ‘Tell _him_ that.’ 

* * *

He closes his eyes for one second. 

It’s just one second, and the next thing he knows, Max. Is grabbing the wheel, and screaming bloody murder, and. Saving their lives, probably. 

Billy’s so. Tired. They’re two weeks into spring, not that you’d ever know it, with how you have to look for the road under all that ice, and he hasn’t had a decent night’s sleep in years, feels like, and. 

Still here. Still alive. 

‘What the fuck, asshole?’ 

A punch lands on his arm. It almost doesn’t. Register. It forces a laugh out of him, how his first thought is always _I’ve had so much worse_. Then he wakes up. 

He wakes up, he almost— 

He can’t do that, not with Max in the car. Max. Matters. Max isn’t _still alive_. Max—Max is _alive at all costs_. 

He passes a hand over his face. Rubs sleep and frenzy and defeat off him. Fuck. Fuck, fuck. _Fuck_. He clears his throat. ‘C’mon. You’ll be late for first period.’ 

Max catches his wrist mid-air. Kinda. Makes him look at her. She’s angry at him, he can see it etched all over her face. She looks like a flame. Moves like one, too. Except. Her anger isn’t ravaging and leaving everything in ruins. It’s soaked in concern. She looks at him like. She cares. 

‘You almost drove us into a ditch, Billy, what. What the fuck? You think I’m letting you start the car again?’ She gives him a scoff, dipped in anger, and scorn, and. Concern. ‘I’m not the one with the death wish here.’ 

Billy heaves a sigh, shoulders dragged down by some invisible weight. He’s carrying lead, or a cross, or. A boulder big enough to crash him to the ground. Like that guy in that story his mom loved. Sisyphus. Rolling it up a hill. Day, after day, after day. 

Maybe she still loves that story. Not like Billy has any way of knowing. 

‘Maxine,’ he says on an exhale, ‘I’m just tired, okay? I didn’t sleep too well last night. Wasn’t on purpose.’ 

‘And what, every other time you’ve done this was?’ 

She just. Doesn’t let go. Billy. He’s never done this before like. Like that. He wouldn’t. Ever do that, not with Max. Max is. _Protect_. _Alive_. _Keep alive_. 

‘Max,’ he sighs, pours every ounce of energy he has left into it. ‘Just. I’m awake now, okay, just. Lemme drive you to school.’ 

She stops him. Again. Grabs his arm when he goes for the keys. 

‘Max—’ 

‘I know, just. Wait a second, okay, just.’ She grabs her stupid backpack, literally. Buries her head in it. Fumbles for something like she’s Mary Poppins and there’s a lamplight stored in there. She does a small triumphant _a-ha!_ when she finds what she’s razoring Billy’s nerves for, which. Like. Billy wouldn’t ever admit, but. It’s kinda. Adorable. 

Kinda sad, too. Max doesn’t get to be a kid. Billy didn’t get to, either. It’s. 

‘Remember how I got,’ Max’s voice cuts through his thoughts, ‘this aunt in Glendale, right? Mom’s. Second cousin, or. Something.’ 

‘Max. Listen, I. Already said I’m sorry, okay, I don’t deserve to be tortured like this.’ 

She scoffs. Sounds way too much like him for Billy’s liking. ‘God, just. Lemme finish, dumbass, _god_.’ She waits for him to play his part. Roll his eyes like he’s being subjected to some. Unspeakable torture. She. Knows to wait him out. ‘Here.’ 

Billy. Stares at the envelope she just handed him. ‘What is this?’ 

‘’s your gift.’ She shrugs, a full-body thing that makes her look taller for a moment. Bigger. Makes her look even younger when she deflates. ‘For your birthday.’ 

‘My birthday’s not till next week, peabrain.’ He scoffs something wet, blinks back the stinging in his eyes. It’s all good, he’s. It’s all good. 

‘Yeah, I. _Know_ , asshole,’ she snaps, impatient and fiery and. Way more exasperated than a pre-teen has any right to be. ‘I’m just. Not as good at keeping secrets as you are. Didn’t wanna spoil the surprise.’ 

She looks up at him, a fragile, delicate thing. Stronger than Billy’s ever been. Ever will be. 

They’re the same, Billy thinks. The same kind of broken. Both hollow and drilled with holes, contradictions sticking out of their skin like rusty nails. Water and Fire, except. 

He’s Ocean. She’s. The fucking Ice Age. A melting glacier in slow motion. 

Both licked by flames. Both burning everyone that stands in their way to ashes. 

He sticks a finger under one corner. Tears the paper open. 

It’s— 

‘I thought.’ Max’s voice is muffled by the thumb she’s stuck in her mouth, biting her cuticles something bloody. ‘Since you can’t spend your birthday there. I thought maybe you could spend summer back home.’ She looks at him, a silent question in her eyes, _did I do good_ , a fight simmering underneath if the answer’s not what she’s angling for. ‘Glendale’s like. An hour from Long Beach.’ 

Billy’s just. Stuck glaring at the ticket in his hand. He’s. Not sure he’s awake. He thought he was. 

Not so sure now. 

‘Where’d you get that kind’a money? _Max_.’ He doesn’t mean to. Snap. Raise his voice, but. 

Too good to be true. 

She shrugs, doesn’t recoil, not even a bit. ‘Been saving up.’ 

He shoves the ticket back at her. It’s too good to be true. He’s. He’s shaking. It can’t be— 

‘Well, you just wasted your money for nothin’. You know he won’t ever—’ 

‘I already asked.’ She cuts him off, and Billy would be mad, almost is, almost throws her out of his car, almost shouts at her, _it’s not a joke, this is just cruel_ , except. 

‘ _What?_ ’ 

‘I already asked. He said yes. Talked to Luce, too. It’s all set.’ She places the paper back on his lap, slowly, like he’s bound to shatter any minute. ‘’s your ticket out of here. Well. For the summer, at least.’ 

‘He. Said yes.’ 

She nods, one corner of her mouth tilting up in victory. ‘Among other things.’ 

Billy winces at that. Looks at the ticket. Looks at her. ‘What are _you_ gonna do? I’m not just gonna leave you here to rot—’ 

‘My friends are here. And,’ she frowns at him, teeth digging into her lip like she’s trying to bite down what comes next. ‘He said. He promised to take us to Chicago for a few days. Said we could, now that—’ 

‘I’m out of the picture. Right.’ 

‘You know that’s not why I’m doing this.’ She looks so old like this, brows furrowed and lips pursed, strict and unyielding. She looks so young. Forced to grow up too fast. A walking contradiction, all fire and ice and. 

Love, Billy thinks. That’s her way. Her way of loving him. He hasn’t met many people who do. He still thinks he likes her way the best. 

He smoothes a thumb along the crease between her eyes, lets out an amused breath when she slaps his touch away. Still. The line’s all gone when he takes his hand back, so. He counts that as a victory. 

‘I know,’ he says, and it comes out firmer than he’d planned. Catches him off guard with how true it rings. He _knows_. ‘Max, that’s.’ He swallows on nothing but dry hope. Tries again. ‘Kid, that’s. Seriously, thank you. It’s the best gift, Max. I mean it.’ 

He reaches out to catch flames between his fingers, ruffle them, make a right mess. She laughs, and Billy thinks. That’s love. 

He wants to let it eat him alive. 

‘Let’s get you to school.’ 

* * *

‘So.’ Carol’s face is hidden behind the biggest, pinkest bubble Billy’s ever had the pleasure of meeting. She draws out the _o_ , makes sure she has everyone’s attention before she pops it with a feline kinda grace Billy. Is kinda jealous of, and like. 

Everyone’s paying attention to Carol. Always. They wouldn’t _dare_ not to. Everyone’s terrified of her. Tommy’s terrified of her. Harrington— _Harrington_ trembles like a wet dog when she’s angry at him. Carol. She’s terrifying, alright, and that’s. One more thing Billy’s jealous of. 

‘What should we get for the birthday boy, babe?’ 

Billy snaps his head up. She’s parked on Tommy’s lap, playing connect-the-dots on his freckles with a sharpie. She’s. Not even looking his way. 

Tommy scoffs. It makes Carol lose her mark, and she. Slaps him on the arm. Tommy looks. Mildly apologetic. Definitely a bit turned on. ‘I’m not spending a dime on that asshole, babe. Some friend. Can’t even tell us his birthday’s coming up.’ 

‘How?’ Billy’s glaring daggers at Carol’s back, cigarette dangling unlit from his lips. He just. Wanted ten minutes of peace. 

Tommy raises his arms in surrender. Rests them on Carol’s hips when he brings them down. ‘Hey man, don’t look at me. She snooped around your file, okay, she just. Wanted to know your zodiac sign. Or somethin’.’ 

‘It just makes. So much sense, hun,’ Carrie says around a bubble, and Billy. Thinks it can’t get worse, and. 

‘What does?’ 

Harrington plants himself on Billy’s side. Throws an arm around his shoulder. Snatches the cigarette from Billy. Lights it up between his own lips. Lights it up. Billy. Hasn’t even had the time to do that. 

He pulls two breaths, all smoke and tight fingers around Billy. Places the smoke back in its place. Between Billy’s lips. 

Tommy and Carrie. They don’t even blink. Like they’re. Used to this. Them. Like that. Tommy-and-Carol, Harrington-and— 

‘Our boy here’s an aries, Stevie,’ Carol drawls, sugary-sweet and teasing to hell. ‘Which. Explains a _lot_.’ 

Billy squirms under Harrington’s grip. ‘I have. No idea what that means, Carrie.’ 

Carol chirps at him. It sounds. Sinister, somehow. She turns to Harrington. ‘It’s aries season, Stevie. Your boy’s birthday’s coming up.’ 

Billy mutters, ‘Sunday.’ Feels Harrington go tense against him. 

‘That so?’ Harrington’s fingers squeeze around the curve of Billy’s shoulder. It’s simmering, the anger, but. It’s there. Billy’s been training his whole life to recognize it. 

Tommy nods between them. ‘Go ahead, Stevie. Ask him what he wants. We’re not getting a word out of him.’ 

‘Oh, babe,’ Carol sing-songs, and Billy. Knows what’s coming. ‘We _know_ what he wants.’ She fixes him with a look. Freezes him to the spot even more than Harrington’s arm around him does. ‘Right?’ 

He. He begs. ‘Carrie—’ 

‘You want out. Right?’ She’s raising one brow at him, _you really thought I’d do that to you_ , and Billy. Exhales. ‘You just wanna go back to your ocean, doncha baby?’ 

‘Yeah,’ he says around a laugh, half-relief. Half-agony, still. Max’s gift burns a hole in his jacket. He thinks. He’ll keep it there till his feet touch sand again. ‘Yeah, that’d be. Real fuckin’ nice, doll. You’re magic, Carrie, but even you can’t give me that.’ 

He feels Harrington shift next to him, and he knows what that means. _That’s enough. Look at **me** , now_. There’s something. Sad in his eyes when Billy finds them. They look. Liquid, almost. 

‘That all you want? To get outta here?’ 

Billy tries to. Move his jaw, open his mouth, spit out words, sounds, _you, I want you, will you let me have that_ , except. 

They’re at school. People all around them. In. Broad fuckin’ daylight, and. Harrington. Presses two fingers under Billy’s left eye, Billy’s jaw snapping shut with a click like Harrington found the switch. 

In broad daylight. Harrington. Traces a line, following the bone, and Billy. Doesn’t even have time to. Panic, scream, have. A heart attack, before Harrington’s plucking something at the crest of his cheek and pulling his arm back to. Show Billy. 

‘Gimme your hand,’ he says. So calm. Like. Boys do that, here. In broad daylight. He circles his other hand around a wrist, brushes a thumb across Billy’s clenched fingers. They open up like petals for him, and Harrington smiles, says, ‘Here.’ 

There’s a black sliver sitting on the tip of his index finger when Billy looks down. The eyelash Harrington stole from him. 

It feels. Precious. Feels important. _My kingdom for a horse_. Billy would. Burn hundreds of kingdoms down if it got him Harrington’s hands on him. 

‘C’mon, heartbreaker. Close your eyes and make a wish.’ Harrington’s charting unmapped territories on his skin, fingers moving up and down and up again. In. Broad daylight. He leans in, liquid brown sloshing over Billy. Wearing him down, little by little. The waves and the rock. ‘Anything you want. You can have it.’ 

_I don’t need to close my eyes_ , Billy thinks. _You’re right here_. 

He closes them anyway. Every smile Harrington’s ever flashed his way rolls behind his eyelids like a Super 8 movie. Harrington laughing, head thrown back, hair catching the wind. Smiling at Billy, small and private and all his. All his. 

He doesn’t need to close his eyes. He knows what he wants. 

He screams it inside his mouth. Lets every letter buzz around, bounce against teeth and gums and tongue, _y-and-o-and-u_. 

The sun’s blinding him when he opens his eyes. Harrington’s smiling at him, sharp and tilted and all-knowing. Billy blinks to save himself from the light. The sun. Harrington. 

Harrington asks, ‘All done?’ and when Billy nods, dazed, sun-drenched, fuckin’. In love, Harrington nods to himself, says, ‘Good.’ 

Says, ‘Now—,’ moves his hand, still clasped around Billy’s, closer to Billy’s face. ‘Blow.’ 

Billy’s. Losing his mind. He. Exhales something shaky, watches as the black sliver goes dancing in the air. _Blow_. 

Harrington’s already standing up. ‘Now you. Just have to wait.’ He chuckles, squeezing skin and bones he’s still got locked inside his fingers. One last time, and. 

When Billy looks up, Carol and Tommy aren’t there anymore. 

He never saw them leave. 

* * *

It’s twenty to midnight, and Billy thinks. 

He’s in the clear, except. 

His window slides open. 

He’s almost. Predictable, by now. Harrington. Sneaks into Billy’s room a couple times a week to. Sneak Billy out. It’s Neil, or Harrington. Billy accepted his fate. 

He’s not getting any sleep. 

‘Remember how we talked about this, right?’ He keeps his voice to a whisper, muffled by the blanket. Blankets. Plural. Not that it makes any difference. His voice. Harrington’s bulletproof. Nothing can touch him. ‘You’re not supposed to do that.’ 

All that earns him is a chuckle, a ‘Shirt and pants, heartbreaker, let’s move it.’ 

He’s so tired. He sits up, blankets sliding off, cold hitting his skin like the end of a leather belt. Familiar. 

Harrington clears his throat. His face is only half-there, half-dark, half-moonlit silver. Dr Jekyll. Mr. Hyde. When he looks up, Billy can see his throat moving. Can make out one eye roaming over exposed skin. 

Harrington. Coughs. Loud as an explosion in all the quiet. The stillness. ‘I’ll wait in the car.’ He climbs out the window like he was. Never there. 

Billy has goosebumps all over his arms to prove he was. 

He gets dressed. 

* * *

They’ve been driving for a while when Harrington looks at the time, three past, finally, finally the 26th, kinda. Panics, a bit. Swerves the car off the road, almost. 

Almost. 

He nods at the glove compartment. ‘Look in there,’ he says. Says. Orders. 

Billy doesn’t know what he’s looking for until. He does. His fingers close around the sharp corners. When he takes his hand out, takes the tape out, too, he— 

‘How the hell did you get this?’ 

Harrington laughs, carefree and wide and fuckin’. Smug as all hell. ‘Put it on, man, let’s hear it.’ 

Billy turns the tape over in his hands. _Love at First Sting_. A guy and his gal on the cover, how it’s meant to be. A guy and his gal. 

He pushes the tape in. 

The trees are flying by in a blur outside the window, and Harrington’s got his eyes on the black asphalt ribbon ahead, face going golden every time they leave a light behind, and. _At first sting_. 

Billy thinks. Maybe that’s love, too. A different kind. Sharper. A shard of glass you can’t help picking up. Closing your fist around, watching red trickling down. A sacrifice. 

Maybe that’s love, too. 

The chorus sets in, fuckin’. Fitting, _bad boys runnin’ wild_ , and Harrington. ‘How’d you like it?’ 

Billy swallows down on nothing. ‘How did you get your hands on it, man? It doesn’t come out until Tuesday.’ Which means. Next month in Hawkins. 

Harrington chuckles, amused. Manic, almost. ‘You’ve seen my house, right? You think I can’t get a tape a couple days earlier? Man, I know people. My _dad_ knows people. I could probably get you to meet these guys. If you wanna.’ 

The song falls into the next, _here I am_ , and Billy thinks. _This one_. _This one’s mine_. ‘Fuck me, it’s. So _good_. Never pegged you down as a Scorpions fan, though. Gotta say.’ 

‘It’s not mine, heartbreaker.’ Harrington takes his eyes off the road for the second he needs to throw Billy a look, a smile. Send Billy’s pulse going haywire in his chest. ‘I got it for you.’ 

‘Steve—’ 

‘You don’t do. Birthdays, I get that. I respect it, but.’ He nods at the clock, short arm pointing at twelve, longer sliding to two. ‘Not yesterday anymore. Just. An ordinary Monday. And this,’ he shrugs, ‘is yours.’ 

Billy looks at the cover clasped in his hands. A guy and his gal. 

How it’s meant to be. 

* * *

Harrington stops the car in front of a big building. Looks. Abandoned. Locked. It’s looming over the trees. It looks almost. Alive, night sky turning broken windows into eyes, and teeth, and a dark, gaping mouth. Ready to eat them raw. The trees. Billy. 

Harrington’s already out of his seat when Billy turns to him for. An explanation, so. 

Billy. Follows. 

‘Y’know, if you wanted to murder me. ‘m pretty sure you coulda done it closer to civilization, Harrington. Not like anyone would come lookin’ for me, or anythin’.’ 

Harrington scoffs from where he’s tracing his fingers along the chain-link fence, feeling around for something. ‘’m not a killer, heartbreaker.’ 

Billy. Thinks of all the times Harrington stole his heartbeat. Made his heart skip a beat, like a needle on a broken record. 

Thinks of all the times Harrington took his breath away. 

He thinks. _Yes_. _Yes, you are_. _You’re killing me_. 

He thinks. _Don’t ever stop_. 

He coughs, throat burning all the way down with desire. Says, ‘I don’t know, Harrington. Looks shady.’ 

Harrington lets out a small triumphant breath before turning to Billy. He holds out his hand. The other’s raising the chain curtain, holding it open for them. 

‘Trust me anyway,’ he says, and. 

Billy. Takes his hand. 

* * *

Harrington laces their fingers together. Doesn’t let go while he’s leading them down empty hallways, past rooms decaying with disuse. 

He looks. Determined. Looks like he knows where he’s going. Like he’s. Been here before. 

Billy. Wonders, in a flash, if Harrington. Ever brought girls here. On dates. He. Wonders if this—if it’s a date. 

He looks between them, at their hands, clasped together, thinks he can see small bolts of lightning flashing out of that one point of contact. It’s. Electric. 

They’re holding hands. Billy wonders if— 

Harrington drops his hand. Doesn’t. Go far away, just. Places it to the small of Billy’s back, ushers him in a room. It looks. Just like every other room they’ve been passing by for the last ten minutes. Smells stuffy, and mouldy, vines taking over every crack on the walls. 

‘This place,’ Harrington starts, sounding. Far away. ‘Used to be a sanatorium. Hasn’t been used in years.’ 

When Billy looks at him, a question already tingling the edges of his mouth, Harrington. He looks. Not here. Like he’s meeting with ghosts. 

‘That was my mom’s room.’ 

Billy snaps his head up. ‘ _What?_ ’ 

Harrington huffs a laugh at that, fog clearing up a bit from his eyes. He blinks a few times. ‘She never wanted kids. Me. She never wanted. Me. She’s been saying that for as long as I can remember.’ He lets his eyes fall shut, takes a few deep breaths before he speaks again. ‘When I was. Five, I think? Six, maybe. Came home to an empty bottle of pills and her lying in the bathtub.’ 

Billy hears himself sucking in a breath, can feel it settling in his lungs like ice-cold fire. He never knew— 

‘My dad got home early that day.’ Harrington chuckles to himself. It doesn’t sound like a laugh at all. It’s twisted. Sour. It’s. It’s angry. ‘He found her, got her out of the bathtub. Got her out of his house. He locked her in here for. A year, I think. Wouldn’t let me see her. I think—he wouldn’t even let me speak of her. Y’know, like. She’d died, that day. For real.’ 

He takes a couple steps. Traces a finger on the bed, raising a cloud of dust along the way. 

Billy aches, itches with the need to. Reach out. Wrap his arms around shoulders carrying more weight than he ever thought, but. He doesn’t. Think it’s allowed. Not now. ‘What happened?’ 

Harrington turns to look at him, brows furrowed like he just remembered Billy’s here, too. ‘Uh. He started bringing me to visit a few weeks before she got out. I think. She kept asking for me. I don’t know. Coming this close to dying brought on a change of heart, or something. She’s been spoiling me rotten ever since.’ 

He scoffs, and there’s bitterness there, but. There’s softness, too. A different kind of love. ‘Trying to make it up to me for getting me all,’ he raises a hand to his temple, draws a few circles in the air. Whistles. 

‘Fuck,’ Billy mutters, because he. Doesn’t know what else to do. Can’t do what he’s dying to, so. ‘Steve, I—I didn’t. Know.’ 

Harrington smiles at him, head tilted to the side, eyes glinting silver, like he’s got the moon trapped inside. He looks. Entertained, almost. More awake than he’s looked ever since they got here. 

‘Everyone’s fucked up, heartbreaker,’ he purrs, slow, like every letter’s dipped in honey and his tongue’s getting stuck. ‘’s what you decide to do with it that makes all the difference.’ 

* * *

They’re on the roof. 

Harrington shook his head clear of the ghosts, grabbed Billy’s hand, again, took them. Up to the roof. 

‘C’mere,’ he says, except Billy’s already _here_ , always, always is. ‘That’s what I wanted to show you.’ 

He walks them to the edge. Hawkins is spread out below them, just yellow lights in the dark. A thousand glimmering lightning bugs twinkling like there’s still hope, somewhere. 

_Everyone’s fucked_. That’s what Harrington said. It’s almost. Impossible to believe that, not with all these lights ahead. 

Harrington clears his throat next to him. Billy can feel it vibrating where their hands blend, one beginning before the other ends. 

‘’s not so bad, y’know,’ he mutters. ‘Hawkins. ‘s like. You know these paintings, with the dots? It’s a mess up close, but. If you take a step back, look at it from a distance. I don’t know. I think there’s something beautiful about it.’ 

Billy. Shivers at that, feels it run through his body, a violent, sudden thing. He pulls his hand back to wrap both arms around himself. He’s so cold. He’s so. 

He’s so tired. 

Harrington’s not looking at the lights anymore. He stares at his hand, hanging limply on his side, wrapped around Billy’s a moment ago. He rakes his eyes up, up, till they find Billy’s face. They stay there. 

‘It’s not so bad,’ he says again, ‘not anymore.’ 

Billy. Can’t—he can’t take this. Harrington’s taking it too far. He’s. Getting too close. 

He’s fired up to go, move just—one step away, that’s all he needs, just one is enough, except. 

Harrington’s arm shoots out, grabs his bicep. Keeps him right _there_. Turns them around so they’re. Face to face. Close. So—so close. He’s smiling. Harrington—Harrington’s smiling. Licking his lips. Ready to. 

Eat him raw. 

‘Can’t leave yet, heartbreaker. Haven’t given you your present yet.’ 

‘The tape—’ 

The fingers around him tighten. Harrington slides his free hand up, up, until he’s cupping Billy’s face, curving under the jaw. Thumb tracing a line under his eye. ‘One thing you keep,’ he says, ‘one thing you don’t. That’s how it goes.’ 

Billy’s shaking with it. With the need he’s feeling. To get close. Closer. To run. As far away as his feet can take him. Run until the air’s all burnt out from his lungs. ‘ _Steve_. Please, just—’ 

He doesn’t know what he’s begging for. Mercy, most of all. Forgiveness. _Forgive me, Father, for I will_ — 

Harrington knows anyway. ‘That’s what you wanted, right? That’s what you wished for.’ 

It flashes through his mind, every time Neil’s called him— _that_. Byers, suspended, that word falling out of Harrington’s lips, easy and practiced and without remorse. 

Every time he’s fallen apart in his room, Harrington’s name behind his teeth, Harrington’s face behind his eyelids. 

He takes a breath, and he thinks _I don’t know_ , and then Harrington’s lips are brushing his, and he thinks _now I do_. 

He shivers, and Harrington holds him, holds him close. Presses their mouths together, tilts Billy’s head to the side, like they’ve been doing this from the start. Like he knows how well they fit. 

Like maybe. He’s been thinking about it, too. 

Harrington licks at the seam of his lips, and Billy. Draws back with a hiss, because that’s—Harrington’s getting too close, but the hand on the back of his head keeps him from moving too far. 

Harrington laughs in the space between them, and Billy. He can feel it on his mouth, like it’s asking to be let in, so he opens his mouth. Lets it in. Swallows down Harrington’s breath. Absorbs it, or maybe. He lets it absorb him. 

He’s all Harrington’s now. 

Harrington dives back in, lips grazing Billy’s when he whispers, ‘Man, you’re so cute when you’re blushing.’ 

He catches Billy’s mouth again, and Billy. He lets himself get caught, this time. Game over. He’ll never breathe without knowing how Harrington feels on his lips again. 

Harrington pulls back after a second. Billy’s tingling all over, shaking with it. 

‘Happy birthday, wonder boy,’ Harrington says, passes a hand through Billy’s curls. Ruffles them up. Tugs a bit, too, before he leans in, leaves a feather-light thing on the corner of Billy’s mouth. Still smiling. ‘Let’s get you home.’ 

* * *

It’s getting light outside. The shapes in his room are becoming more defined. His desk. His chair. The stack of crates. His mirror, perched on top. 

Billy’s. Not sure how long he’s been lying on his bed. Still. Motionless. His eyes are dry, burning with the need to sleep, to rest, to. Give in. 

He tries not to breathe too much. It’d be a waste, without Harrington close. 

He tries not to breathe too much, and then he shoves his hand in his pocket, and his fingers close around something, and then he’s. Not breathing at all. 

_One thing you keep_. _One thing you don’t_. 

His fingers close around it, and his eyes sting with something different now. 

He kept the tape. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me: *offering angst* here u go i hope you guys like it 🥰
> 
> i have a [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/) and also. if anyone's interested. i have a playlist for billy [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/1xHh00Et9SE4T5TVrCDvUm?si=VkS1ENkBRneHcohk9fGLvg) and one for Them™ [here](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/3DeXxwsX9b6VkNdqh7tUb8?si=QbWDGiV9ROStZmt757fJGQ)


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, coming to u with _another_ stupidly long chapter? more likely than u think

It’s been twelve days. 

Twelve days since Harrington. Kissed him. 

Billy’s been skipping breaths for twelve days, skipping lunches and classes and heavy looks, and Harrington. 

He’s on a date. Harrington’s on. A fucking date. 

The quarry is. Surprisingly quiet for a Friday night. 

Well. Billy snarled at the couple sitting at the place he’d clocked, so. 

Yeah, it’s. It’s quiet. 

The bottle he swiped from the gas station is half empty. Liquid sloshing around every time he sways, back and forth. Back and forth. 

It’s harder here, to. Get stuff. People are more. Suspicious. Two pretty eyes don’t get you as far. It’s. 

Annoying, is what it is. Billy’s _stuck_. He feels so— 

The screeching of brakes behind him wakes him up, and he. He has no idea how Harrington found him. He’s not at their usual spot. Their. _Usual spot_. He picked a place further down, hidden from above. It’s steep, the quarry. You can’t see him if you’re not. Looking. 

Harrington. Found him. It’s been twelve days, and Harrington. 

Came looking. 

‘You thinkin’ of jumpin’?’ 

Billy’s. Halfway there anyway. Feet dangling from the edge. Leading the way. He could just. Push. Push forward. Let go. 

He could. 

‘You thinkin’ of saving me?’ 

Harrington’s everything he sees in two blinks. One, maybe. Billy’s not up for counting right about now. His mind’s all—screwy. 

He hovers, Harrington. He doesn’t. Invade. Doesn’t—touch. He usually. He’d be all over Billy by now. It’s— 

‘I’m trying,’ he says, and it’s so gentle, and he’s lying, and Billy wants to. 

Push. 

He raises the bottle to his lips instead. If he can’t. Have Harrington on them. He figures. Might as well. 

‘Where’d you get that?’ 

Billy takes a sip. Takes one more, one more, one— 

Makes it easier. When he closes his eyes. Hears Harrington sitting down, next to him. He’s been burning for so long. At least. Now he. Has an excuse. 

‘Swiped it from the old lady at the gas station.’ 

Harrington scoffs. He sounds. Amused, almost. Fond when he shakes his head, says, ‘Man you’re. _Such_ an asshole.’ 

‘Yeah, well. You’re still here.’ It’s April, and it’s still fucking cold, colder than home ever gets, but it’s humid, bottle sweating in his palm, droplets runningrunning _running_ down, falling on denim with a muted thud. Billy scratches at the label. It’s all mushy. Pulpy. It’s. Disgusting. ‘Why _are_ you here? What happened to your— _date_?’ 

Harrington. Grabs Billy’s arm. The one holding the bottle. Guides it. Brings the bottle to his lips, kisses the tip, still shiny and damp from Billy’s mouth. 

He takes a swig. Eyes never straying from Billy’s. ‘She was boring. I hate boring people, heartbreaker. You know that.’ 

He lets Billy free, lets his hand fall to his side, _thump_ , like the string’s been cut. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. Wipes Billy from his lips. 

Billy feels. Cold all over. He tries to fight back a shiver. It. It doesn’t work. 

‘Where’s your—’ Harrington looks around, like he just realized where they are. There’s only one car here. ‘Billy. You _walked_? It’s fuckin’.’ He cuts himself off with a sigh. Like he. Finally gets it. 

It doesn’t mean a thing, not to Billy. He’d walk hundreds of miles in the cold to get. Away. Get here. 

Harrington stands up. Dusts himself off. He moves, finally. Finally puts himself in Billy’s space. He traces a line along Billy’s brow, brushes a curl away from his eyes, and it’s so. Gentle, and Billy’s so— 

He’s so tired. His mind’s all. Screwy. He’s dazed enough to. Give in. For a second. Let his eyes flutter closed. Focus on that one point of warmth. 

Harrington chuckles a bit, and it sounds gentle, and he’s _lying_ , and Billy. Doesn’t give a fuck. He lets himself be. Fuckin’—petted. _Good boy_. 

He’s already down. That’s where he’s getting a treat, he thinks. 

‘Let’s get in the car, okay?’ Harrington hasn’t. Stopped scratching at his scalp, and Billy’s seconds away from falling asleep, right there. Kneeling in front of Harrington, fingers still closed around the bottle. 

Bowing to the King. 

He doesn’t remember moving. One second he’s on the ground, cold seeping through the fabric, settling deep in his bones, and. The next he’s wrapped in a blanket of heat. Harrington’s got the AC full blast. Of course he does, fuckin’ spoiled rich— 

Billy’s saving up. To get away from. Hawkins. Everything in it. 

Everyone. 

Heat isn’t his top priority. Gas fuckin’. Costs. Harrington’s probably. Never had to worry about that, not once in his life. 

It’s nice, though. The heat. It’s. It makes it easier, to let the weight on his eyelids win. To let his head fall back. 

It’s been twelve days. 

He’s buzzing with it. The need to be. Close. Harrington gave him a taste, and he’s. He’s hooked now. 

‘Why are you here?’ 

He can hear Harrington shuffling next to him. The bottle is snatched from his hand. Billy opens his eyes right on time to see Harrington hiding it under his seat. 

Out—out of reach. 

‘You keep avoiding me, heartbreaker.’ 

It punches an ugly sound out of Billy, that word. He tries to make it a scoff. Ends up more of a sob anyway. ‘That why you were out with her?’ 

There’s a hand at the back of his head, fingers clutching a handful of curls. Tugging. Tilting his head back. Forcing him to. Bare his throat. 

There’s a sharp spike of pain on the back of his neck, bone bending unnaturally, and it’s familiar, and Harrington looks. Calm. He looks so. Calm. ‘I don’t go around chasing people, Hargrove.’ 

‘And yet.’ Billy grins something feral. Feral, and deranged, and. Fuckin’—victorious. ‘Look at you, King Steve. Here you are. You _found_ me.’ 

Harrington pulls back, wincing like he just got burnt, and Billy. 

He thinks. No. Twelve days—it’s enough. He’s been good. Now he’s getting his treat. 

He surges forward. He’s on Harrington in a second, biting at his lips until he opens with a sharp gasp. Surprised. 

Good. He deserves it. He. He’s had it coming. 

It’s been twelve days, and Billy hasn’t taken a breath, not really, feels like his lungs are filled with water and salt, sloshing inside, corroding and consuming and eating away. His lips find Harrington’s, and he. He can breathe again. 

He’s _starving_. 

He’s gripping the edges of Harrington’s jacket. Harrington licks into his mouth with a groan, and Billy. Can almost hear the fabric ripping, stretched unnaturally under his fingers. 

Harrington lets out a chuckle. Billy can feel it in his mouth, lips tingling with it. He cups Billy’s face in his hands. Takes back what’s his, the control, the growl Billy throws his way. 

Billy can’t—he can’t do _slow_. He needs. So much. Too much. 

Harrington. He tilts his head, like he gets it, opens his mouth like he’s trying to swallow Billy whole. 

Better him than the hunger that lives inside his bones. Billy decides. Better him. 

He nips at Harrington’s lips till they’re blood-hot under his tongue, till he can feel little slits opening, blood trickling, flooding Billy’s mouth. He swallows it like Holy Communion. The body. The spirit. 

He’s saved. 

Harrington tilts his head up. Bares his throat for him, and Billy can feel his pulse beating a wild thing all over his body, needs to close his eyes for a second, needs to rest his forehead in the hollow of Harrington’s neck before he. He dives. It’s his treat. 

There’s a line of sweat running down Harrington’s temple, and Billy. Licks it all up, feels it mixing in his mouth, sweat and alcohol and. Want. Harrington’s got a hand on the back of his head, holding, as if Billy would ever. Ever go anywhere. 

He takes a breath, finally, finally, and everything is Harrington. 

Everything. Everything is Harrington. 

He can feel Harrington getting hard under his touch, getting hard. For him, for _him_ — 

He leaves a mark of a smile on Harrington, teeth clasped around his collarbone, right next to the pulse beating something wild under his jaw. He smoothes it, the bite. Licks over it, careful, makes sure every dent gets a smile, a kiss. A piece of him. Sewn into Harrington. 

It belongs to Harrington anyway. Always has. From the start. 

All—all of it. Everything Billy. Is. It’s not his. Hasn’t belonged to him, not for a long time, but. 

It’s a choice this time. He chooses Harrington. 

He sinks his teeth under the jawline, slides down till he finds the jugular, fuckin’. Munches on it, almost. Tears a piece out, a piece for the whole of him, and Harrington. Lets him, bite and chew and scratch, and Billy. 

He’s— 

He thought he was drunk before. It’s nothing compared to this. Getting a sip of Harrington. 

Harrington moans, and Billy looks up just in time to see eyelashes meeting cheek, and he thinks. 

That’s it. Nothing else has ever mattered. He’ll scratch his eyes out before he sets them on anything else. 

He trails a line down Harrington’s throat, licking and kissing and. Biting, _biting_ , leaving his mark, until he meets wool, and he. Has to push the fabric aside to get to skin. Bite his way to Harrington’s heart. 

It’s thumping under his tongue. Like a signal. Morse code. Billy hopes it’s spelling his name. 

His heart hasn’t stopped spelling Steve’s. 

Harrington says, _fuck_ , _fuck_ , _don’t—_ , and Billy laughs, doesn’t need to hear it, _don’t stop_ , he. He wouldn’t, not ever, not for anything in the entire world. 

He presses his palm against Harrington. He’s pulsing under his touch, skin against fabric against skin, and Harrington’s hard for him, for _him_. 

Billy starts moving, bending his body to say his prayers, to lick devotion on skin, and then the hand at the back of his head _tugs_ , and Harrington says, ‘Don’t,’ and. 

Billy gets it. 

Harrington. He doesn’t. He didn’t mean _don’t stop_ , he. He means. 

_Don’t_. 

He means _don’t_ , and that’s. That’s not how this goes. 

Billy growls, starts fumbling with the belt buckle, mouth bitter with defeat. He needs— 

Harrington _drags_ him up. Fingers tight in his hair, nails digging trenches across his scalp. He drags him up. 

He means. _Don’t_. 

Billy doesn’t—that’s not how this goes, Harrington hard against his palm, panting like he’s using up his last breath, each one coming out a _don’t_ , smaller and smaller and— 

‘Harrington,’ Billy tries to force life back into his body, he needs. He needs his fingers to _work_ , he needs to get to skin, he needs. ‘Just lemme—’ 

Harrington smoothes a thumb under the hollow of his eye before he. He pushes Billy back. Away. 

Billy. Falls. He. He collapses on the seat, lifeless and frozen and. Not all there. 

The windows are all fogged up. Mocking him. Like a preview of how this is supposed to go. He sinks teeth into a Harrington-flavored lip to bite down the scream itching its way up his throat. 

Harrington taps the wheel, one, two, three times. He looks. Ruined, hair mussed by Billy’s fingers, jacket almost off, breath ragged and broken. How it’s supposed to go. 

‘You’re fucked up,’ he says, jaw clenched. Everything about him screams fight, and Billy. 

He’s too tired. 

‘Ev’ryone’s fucked up, Kin’ Steve. ‘s whatchu said, right?’ 

Harrington passes a hand over his face. _Now you see me. Now you don’t_. He heaves a sigh, and. ‘You do that a lot? Back home?’ 

He spits the last word out. Like it leaves something sour on his tongue. _Home_. 

Billy raises an eyebrow. Well. He thinks he does. Hopes. He’s. So tired. Barely awake. It’s settling in, the buzz. Finally. ‘Ge’ drunk on st’len shit?’ 

Harrington huffs, shaking his head. It’s driving Billy wild, how he’s. Not looking at him. Keeps scratching at the worn leather on the wheel, thumbnail scratching and poking and clawing like it’s trying to find gold. 

Billy’s not—he doesn’t even realize he’s got his fingers around Harrington’s wrist until he feels bones twisting under his hold. Trying to get away. Not—not really. Not really trying. 

‘You know what I’m askin’,’ Harrington mutters, frowning down at that one point of contact. Not trying to get away. 

Billy scoffs, fingers sliding away from Harrington, except. Harrington moves faster, digs his nails on the soft skin of Billy’s palm. Nailing him in place. Who’s the hunter and who— 

‘Whaddya want me to tell ya, Steve? Look a’me.’ He makes it easy for Harrington. Breaks into his field of vision. Harrington raises his head, and then he’s. Finally, finally looking at Billy. ‘Huh? Whaddya wan’ me to say? ‘s never been like this? Tha’ wha’ you wanna hear?’ 

When he tries to take his hand back, Harrington. Lets him this time. Lets him crawl back into his corner. Fold arms and legs. Make himself small. 

The blows hurt less that way. He knows that by now. 

Harrington clears his throat, and it. Sounds wet, too. ‘C’mon,’ he mutters, fingers already turning the key in the ignition. ‘Let’s go.’ 

Billy sniffles. It’s a good thing he’s drunk. He probably. Won’t remember any of this tomorrow. He hopes. ‘Can’t go home.’ 

‘Yeah, I. I know, heartbreaker. ‘m taking you to my place.’ 

He starts the car. 

Billy—he thought he’d be happier. Hearing these words for the first time. 

He doesn’t—it’s not how it’s. 

Supposed to go. 

* * *

He’s walking, and there’s an arm around his waist, and then he’s falling on something soft, and everything smells like Harrington, and he’s. 

So tired. 

When he wakes up, he’s wrapped in the same blanket he covered Harrington with the other day, and it’s light out, and Billy doesn’t know a lot of things, but he knows where Neil expects him to be on a Saturday morning, and. 

His head almost cracks in two when he stands up. Stars and bolts of thunder are crackling behind his eyelids, and Billy hopes. He hopes he can get some coffee in him before facing Neil. 

He hopes. 

He keeps as quiet as he can. He can’t face Harrington, too. Not after last night. One battle at a time. 

He leaves, and the door closing behind him doesn’t make a sound. 

* * *

On Wednesday, the door creaks open, slow and hushed and tentative, and Max creeps in. 

Billy—that’s one more skill he’s honed. Recognizing footsteps. The heavy from the light. The. Safe from. 

Max is. She’s safe. 

He can feel her. Lingering. Even with his back to her, he knows she’s probably biting away at her nails. Fuckin’ coping mechanisms. Neil’s stamp on her. 

‘Stop skulking, Maxine. ‘s _unladylike_.’ 

He can hear her annoyed huff before he can turn around to face her, already losing the war with the smirk setting camp over his lips. 

She’s. Holding an ice pack. 

He sighs. It’s been. Almost a week since Neil planted a fistful of knuckles on the side of his face. The ice pack. Won’t do shit. 

He pats the bed. ‘C’mere.’ 

She steps closer, and her shoulders are hunched, but she looks. Fuckin’ determined. Billy’d never admit it, but. Something inside him swells with pride. She wordlessly hands him the ice pack. 

‘You know it doesn’t work after like. A day, right?’ He raises one eyebrow. Chuckles a bit when she rolls her eyes, when she mutters a soft _bitch_ under her breath. 

He nods at the bed. ‘Sit your butt down, pinhead.’ She does, carefully, like he’s bound to shatter any minute, and he can’t. He can’t have her looking at him like that, so. 

He grabs the ice, wrapped in Sue’s blue towel. Her _good_ blue towel. Brings it up to his face. It stopped hurting like. Three hours after Neil taught him a lesson, _my son doesn’t stay out all night_. His skin’s been trained by now. Take a fist. Walk it off. Rinse, repeat. 

It hides half his face, though, the ice pack, so. 

Max is jumpy, a spring fixing to get uncoiled. Keeps fidgeting, fingers flexing and unflexing on her thighs. Eyes flitting everywhere but on his face. 

Billy nudges her hip with the hand not busy numbing half his face. ‘What is it?’ 

She looks at him, really looks at him, for the first time since she came in. She’s biting her lip. Billy’s learned to recognize that, too. It’s Max’s way of saying she feels. Guilty. Of apologizing. 

‘’s just,’ she starts, ruins her nails some more before she speaks again, ‘’s almost May. You’ll be gone in a few weeks.’ 

Billy meets her eyes with knitted eyebrows, and Max whispers, ‘I wish you were already there,’ and Billy. 

Gets it. 

It chokes him, the way she. Loves him. She’s trying to. Protect him, and that’s not. It’s not how it’s supposed to go, Billy’s the big guy here, he’s supposed to keep Max— 

‘Gee, thanks,’ he manages around the lump in his throat. Around the stinging in his eyes. ‘Way to make a guy feel welcome, Maxine, seriously.’ 

The slap she lands on his chest is the weakest Billy’s ever taken, and he grabs her wrist, keeps her palm spread over his ribs, both kinda shaking with everything they’ve never been allowed to be. 

He’d like it, he thinks. Being her big brother. 

He wishes he could’ve. 

‘Max,’ he waits until she slides her eyes up to his, searches over her face to make sure she’s not about to do something stupid like. Cry, most likely. ‘Y’know I’m coming back, right? Even though you like. Totally went and set me up by booking me a single ticket.’ 

She laughs, a kinda wet, kinda broken tiny thing, and it’s more than any of them can handle. ‘Thought maybe I could get you to like. Stay there. Get rid of you once and for all.’ She gnaws at her lip a bit, looks like she needs to gather some courage before she—‘’s what you want anyway, right?’ 

Billy opens his mouth, _of course it’s what I fuckin’ want, Maxine_ , already rolling off his tongue, and he. 

A few months ago, it. Would’ve been true. The only thing he wants. Getting the fuck out of Hawkins. Getting away from this place, from. Everyone in it. 

The lie sticks on his gums like those stupid fruit candies Max is always chewing, passes him all the strawberry ones with a disgusted frown because Max is a fuckin’ psycho who hates strawberry Starbursts, and Billy always, always ends up wolfing them down, because _it’s a waste of money, Maxine_ , and he. 

He swallows, and his mouth tastes like strawberry and regret and. Harrington. 

He wants it to be true, he. He needs it to be true. The one thing he wants. Getting out of Hawkins. 

He knows it right then. He knows it’s not true, the same way he knows the ring on Neil’s left hand gets skin-warm after the first punch. 

‘Yeah,’ he rasps, and hopes the way he tangles a hand in fire-red curls, gives them a good ruffle, he hopes. It distracts Max from the crack in his voice. The lie in it. ‘Yeah, of course that’s. What I want, kid. Leave this fuckin’ place behind.’ 

Max nods, like he gave the right answer, _you get a car!_ , and her canines are still digging into her bottom lip, but she looks. Relieved. Reassured. 

Billy waits until she stands up, turns her back to him, to. ‘Max? I’m one call away, y’know that.’ He pokes at her arm until she looks at him again. He needs her to—this is. It’s important. She needs to know. ‘You _know_ that. If anything—if he. Does anything—’ 

‘He won’t,’ she cuts him off, voice tight and smile tight and. Everything about her tight, waiting to be let loose. A spring that’s been coiled for too long. ‘I—everything’s gonna be fine. He doesn’t—not me. It’s never about me,’ she says, and. She bites her lip again. Guilty, because one of them’s safe under Neil’s roof, and it’s never been Billy. 

Billy _knows_ that, except. It’s Neil, so. He doesn’t, not really. Everything’s bound to go up in flames from one moment to the next. 

‘Still. If anything—you call. You call, and I get in a car, and drive for a day and a half, and I’m. Right here.’ 

Max says _okay_ , and she looks right about ready to burst into the ugliest fuckin’ crying session either one of them has ever witnessed, and then she mumbles _jus’wan’yout’beh’ppyforawhile_ , all in one breath, and. 

Billy passes a hand over his face the moment the door clicks closed. 

He needs to sort out his priorities. 

* * *

He’s been nursing the same stale beer for. An eternity, now, seems like. 

Nursing the sharpest fuckin’ migraine, too. 

The music doesn’t help, thumpthump _thumping_ from the speakers straight into his head, making the vein in the middle of his forehead pop violently in. Protest, probably. 

The bitch plastered on his side doesn’t help, either. She’s sucking at his neck something feral. Sucking the life out of him, is his wild guess. 

Billy can. Feel the red thread at the end of his finger tugging. _Tugging_. Harrington’s on the other side of the room. 

It’ll break, Billy thinks. One of them takes one more step, and it. It’ll snap. 

He wraps an arm around the bitch’s waist. Plasters her to his side, her soft _oof_ as she lands on him lighting up his nerves like she’s pouring gasoline and he’s the match. 

He takes one more step. Just enough to put him. _Them_. Next to the ugliest fuckin’ lava lamp Billy’s ever seen, and Billy. Like. He was in Cali not even. A year ago. One more step, and then he’s. _They_. They’re bathed in green and pink and purple neon, and Billy buries a hand in her hair, takes a second to prepare for. The wrongness of it, how. Coarse and bad and. Wrong it feels, and. 

He keeps his head tilted to the sky when he crashes their mouths together. Makes sure Harrington can see how Billy looks when he’s kissing someone else. 

She’s got her back to Harrington, the bitch in Billy’s arms, keeps her back to him when Billy sucks on her tongue like he’s trying to get to chocolate, keeps her back to him when Billy. Finds Harrington's eyes over the room, schools his into something hooded and dazed, when he purrs _perfect_ , not meant for her, not—not one part of him meant for her. 

She keeps her back to Harrington when she comes up for air. Giggles, a curl already twirled around her pinky, and Billy. 

If he had his head screwed on right. He’d be dragging the bitch into a bedroom, a closet, the. The nearest fuckin’ basement, except. 

Harrington’s already wading through the crowd parting around him on instinct, rehearsed and refined through years of practice, he’s already stalking over, and Billy. 

‘Go grab us a coupl’a drinks, sweet stuff,’ he licks the words right into her ear. Feels her shudder under him. It’s. 

He’s going to be sick. 

She keeps her back to Harrington, so. 

She doesn’t see him. 

Coming over. Crowding Billy against the wall, in the middle. Of the living room, teenagers drinking and shouting and dancing around them like Billy isn’t being eaten alive in front of them. 

Harrington raises the sunglasses he’s been hiding his eyes under up his head. Steadies himself with a palm on the wall. His thumb is. It’s brushing Billy’s cheek. 

Right here, in front of everyone. Billy’s being devoured, one piece at a time. 

Harrington leans in, mouth split open in. A smile, almost. Something wild, and awful, and. Deranged. 

‘You’re not gonna win, heartbreaker.’ He shoves Billy with his whole body. Gets him to. Sway a bit on his feet. He nods towards the stairs. ‘Go on.’ 

Billy thinks _I can’t, I can’t, I can’t_ , and. 

He goes. 

Harrington swims through the house like he’s. Been here before. Pushes Billy up the stairs, steers him to the left. Shoves him in a room Harrington has. No reason to know it’s there. 

Billy stays frozen in the middle of it. Staring at the king sized mattress. It’s staring back at him. It’s— 

Harrington. Shouldn’t know this room is here. 

The door clicks, and the lock clicks too, and then Billy’s. _Thrust_. On it. The—the bed. The king size mattress. 

He bounces, just a bit, and he. He sits up, up, up, because this isn’t— 

It’s not happening. Not. Not here, not. Like this, Billy. He wants— 

Not like this. 

Harrington. Doesn’t. Care, doesn’t ask, he just. Straddles Billy, folds himself over him, knees bracketing his sides, not. Not letting him leave. 

Billy says, _Steve_ — and then he doesn’t. Remember what the rest of it was, gets swallowed by Harrington anyway, gets. 

Devoured. 

Billy can’t leave. He’s. He’s not trying to. 

It’s been twelve days, and then it’s been seven more, and Harrington kisses him like he’s been keeping count too, and he tastes like hours of knocking back alcohol, and it’s. 

It’s right. 

Harrington snakes a hand between them, and Billy. He’s gone from bitch-zero to Harrington-all the way _there_ in just a second, just a. Just a kiss, and Harrington rests the heel of his palm against him. Presses, and Billy. Howls in his mouth, because he’s at a party, and going commando is the equivalent of like. Black tie, and it. Burns, grates, the fabric on his skin, would probably. Hurt a whole lot more if Billy wasn’t leaking like a bitch in heat. 

His breath leaves him in a rush, sounds almost like _whatreyoudoin_ , almost panicked, and he grabs Harrington’s wrist, to make his point, to make him stop, to. 

Harrington doesn’t let up. He lets out a laugh, and it’s Harrington’s, and then it’s Billy’s, passed in a breath from one to the other. Holy communion. 

His hand’s still trapped between them, and he flicks his wrist, inches his fingertips under the hem of Billy’s jacket. Finds the dark line of curls, the half that’s not hidden under fabric, and when he grazes his nails, Billy shuddering underneath him, Harrington grinds down. 

He’s. He’s hard. Billy feels it, two layers of fabric to get to skin, and Harrington’s hard, and Billy can feel it. 

‘Harrington,’ he pulls back enough to let air into his lungs, into his. His brain, ‘what are you _doing_?’ 

Harrington’s face scrunches up in a frown, brows knitted together, and he looks. Golden under the warm glow of the bedside lamp, and flushed red above Billy, and there’s purple there, too, purple wool bunched under Billy’s grip, and Billy’s teeth around his collarbone, not purple yet, but the promise of purple, and. 

Regal, Billy thinks. He’s golden, and red, and purple, and maybe nobody else can see it, but Billy blinks, and the crown’s right there, resting on Harrington’s head. 

Where it’s meant to be. 

Harrington leans in, lips grazing the curve of Billy’s ear. ‘Givin’ you a hand, heartbreaker.’ He moves against him, makes them both lose a couple of beats, a couple of breaths, and that’s one, and then. The other, the hand that’s not driving Billy to madness, he. He slides that upup _up_ , until it’s wrapped around Billy’s throat, and his thumb is pressing down on his pulse, and the tip of his index is caressing the line of Billy’s jaw, and Harrington. 

He’s cheating. He said one hand. That’s. That’s two. 

He’s holding Billy’s life in it. 

He’s not. Pushing, not. Not tightening. Harrington stares, at the hand that’s not supposed to be there, stares like it’s exactly where it’s supposed to be, and Billy’s got fingers wrapped around his neck, but Harrington’s breathing comes out stuttered and wrecked and labored. 

Billy doesn’t—he’s not breathing. 

‘Gettin’ you ready,’ Harrington murmurs, like a lullaby, like putting him to bed. He clasps his teeth around Billy’s bottom lip. Tugs until it hurts. Tugs some more. ‘She’s waiting for you with legs wide open, heartbreaker. You can’t. Let me down, okay?’ 

He uses the grip he has around Billy’s throat to. Slam their hips together, and Billy can. Recognize a fight by now, but this one. Knocks the wind out of him, knocks a moan out of his lungs, meets the one punched out of Harrington’s halfway, clashes with it, and it. 

Harrington’s got a hand around Billy’s throat, but they both sound three beats away from dead. 

He keeps pushing down, Harrington, keeps kissing and biting and stroking his fingers under Billy’s jaw, along arteries and veins and everything that bears breath, and Billy needs— 

‘Stop.’ 

He pushes, claws at the hand around his throat, every movement eased down by years of practice, other hands, other eyes, same throat under different fingers, and Harrington. 

Laughs. Gets up, dragging Billy with him. 

Billy. Falls into him, out of breath, out of. Touch, and they’re standing in the middle of the room, almost dancing, almost. Swaying to the music seeping through the keyhole, shaking the floor with it, shaking. 

Shaking Billy too. 

Harrington turns them around, almost swaying, almost dancing, and Billy feels his back meeting the door, feels his lips meeting Harrington’s, just for. A second, and then. 

The lock clicks, and the door opens, and Harrington says, ‘Think of me,’ and. 

The door slams shut, and Billy. 

He’s on the wrong side of it. 

* * *

He does. 

He finds the girl. Gulps down the beer she got for him in one swig. Gets her to the nearest dark place, gets her legs around him, gets her wet and writhing and moaning in his ear. 

Gets inside her with a thrust, and it feels wrong, and he. 

He thinks of Harrington. 

* * *

On the first day of May, Susan walks into his room holding a daisy. 

Her dress has tiny daisies too, white and yellow against blue, and it’s flowing in the wind, and Billy. 

He shakes his head to remember they’re not on Happy Days. This isn’t a tv show. This. 

This isn’t a family. 

She’s biting her lip, and there’s something bunched in her other hand, and she. She looks more like a child than Billy ever has. Than Max has, too. 

‘Sue?’ She blinks at his voice, like she sleep-walked all the way here, like she walked and walked and didn’t wake up to see where she was heading. ‘Everythin’ okay?’ 

‘Yeah, I—’ She tiptoes closer, like dipping a toe in the water, testing the temperature, testing if she’s. Going to be eaten alive. Like she’s afraid of him. Like she’s. Like she’s afraid for him. ‘Listen I,’ she says on an exhale, ‘found this outside.’ 

She holds out the. Flower. Billy. Kinda. Stares at it. He’s not sure what he’s. Supposed to do with it, so. 

He frowns at her. 

She sighs, and she turns her other hand palm up, and she mutters, ‘Was going through the boxes from back home looking for Max’s rain boots and I. Found this,’ and Billy. 

He isn’t listening, not really, feels kinda like a wave knocked over his board and sent him gasping for breath, because Susan. 

It’s a polaroid, faded and crumpled and torn a bit round the corners, and it’s. 

Billy remembers when she snapped it. Mom, his—his mom. Remembers how she came running to him, brushed a hand through his curls, left a trampled daisy behind Billy’s ear. How she. Ran through the house to get the camera she’d been saving up for for months and months and months in that blue tin box that always smelled like butter and sugar and home, how she. 

She made him sit this way and that. Kept calling him her _precious flower boy, Billy-bear-baby_. He remembers how she laughed. And laughed, and laughed, and made him laugh too, until the car pulled up and they couldn’t laugh anymore. 

Billy. He remembers. 

He remembers laughing. 

Susan clears her throat, and Billy feels clouds on his eyelids, screaming rain, and he doesn’t remember laughing anymore. 

‘I didn’t know Nei- _dad_. Kept that.’ 

There’s a stain on the carpet, and Susan digs the tip of her heel in, _three clicks and it’s gone_. ‘I don’t think he knows, either. It was buried under piles of old yearbooks.’ She tucks two strands of hair behind her ears. Nervous. ‘I saw it, and then today. On my morning walk I found this, and I. I don’t know. It’s stupid.’ 

Billy blinks the rain back. He doesn’t. Know what to say to her. What she’s looking for. Comfort, or gratitude, or. Absolution. 

She’s right. It _is_ stupid, and it doesn’t fix anything, and it’s. 

It’s kind. 

It’s just. Kind. No terms and conditions. No ulterior motives, just. Just kind. 

There’s not much of that in his life anymore. Kinda. Never has been, so. 

‘It’s. Nice, Sue. Really, it is.’ He traces the white edge of the polaroid with his fingers. ‘Can I keep it?’ 

She nods, this tiny little thing dipped in relief. ‘It’s yours. Both of them.’ She sucks in a breath. ‘Actually,’ she says, ‘I wanted to talk to you about something else, too.’ 

When he raises his brows in a question, she bites her lip, and throws a look behind her, even though. Neil isn’t home, even though she’s. Not the target, not ever, and then. ‘Luce is a good woman, Billy.’ 

Billy thinks, _it’s that kind of talk_ , he thinks, _I could be good too, maybe_ , he thinks, _I’m holding a daisy_ , he. 

He says, ‘I’ll be a good boy, Susan. I’ll play nice, alright? You don’t gotta worry.’ 

Susan furrows her brows, and then she says, ‘No,’ and then she says, ‘that’s not what I—’ and then she says. 

‘Haven’t caught up with her in a while, but. Uh, last time we saw each other, she. Wasn’t living alone.’ 

‘What, she got a guy staying with her?’ Billy doesn’t. Get it. ‘He anything like—’ 

‘A lady.’ She cuts him off, and Billy doesn’t get it, and then he. 

He does. _A lady_. 

‘Oh,’ he says, and then he winces, and he clears his throat, and he tries not to curl up under the covers and laugh at the irony. Maybe cry a little, too. ‘Does my—does he know?’ 

Susan looks. Horrified, almost comically so, and Billy should really start giving her more credit, like. She’s not as clueless as he thought, shaking her head and throwing glances out the window like maybe Neil might be lurking, waiting for the right moment to. Strike. 

‘He’d never allow this if he did, Billy, you. You know that,’ she says, voice barely above a whisper. ‘I just. Wanted to make sure you weren’t. Caught off guard, I suppose. She’s a good woman, and I don’t—I never had any problem with—’ She trails off, and she looks resigned, but she looks lighter now, too. A weight off. 

The phone rings, and she jumps like she just got caught. She lets it ring. ‘You can’t. Say anything to your father about it, Billy, I know you understand this. He can’t know.’ 

Billy wants to laugh, and he wants to cry, and he wants to curl up under the covers and never get out, and. 

‘Say anything about what?’ 

He blinks at her. She blinks back. Billy can. Pinpoint the moment she. Gets it. The moment her face lights up in something that could mean joy if they. Weren’t under Neil’s roof. 

No joy can grow roots here. 

She nods, once. Says, ‘Dinner’s ready in twenty,’ and she turns around to leave, and Billy. He has the urge to almost. Thank her, for the flower, for the photo, for. For the kindness, except. 

She hasn’t been here. She’s been here, and she knows, and she hasn’t. Been here. Not for him. A flower can’t take that back. Just. Makes it look prettier for a second. 

‘Sue,’ he calls, and he waits for her to meet his eyes, hopes she can read a tiny drop of gratitude in there, ‘don’t set the table, I’ll. Be down in a sec.’ 

Her dress flows behind her when she leaves. 

Her own field of daisies. 

* * *

They’re sharing a peach. 

Not. Not a peach. Nectarine, Harrington said, eyebrow raised and voice pinched with arrogance and crown glistening golden under the sun. 

Billy. Couldn’t give a fuck what it’s called, if he’s honest. Tastes like a peach. Doesn’t have any fuzz, because the King would never deign to soil his royal mouth with _fuzz_. Harrington wants to go fancy on him, Billy can give him that, so. 

They’re sharing a nectarine. 

All the endless summers Billy spent back home could never prepare him for this—blanket of heat that settled over Hawkins the moment June rolled in. 

It’s suffocating. 

It sits heavy on his bones. Makes him wanna do something stupid, lying down on the edge of Harrington’s pool, Harrington next to him. Feeding him. Passing him slices of fuzzless peach, fingers sticky and hot and lingering, always just. Lingering. One second too many, and one more. One more. 

It’s. It’s suffocating. Makes Billy wanna do something dumb, like roll over until he hits water, like fall asleep under the sun, like. Like lean in, kiss peach off Harrington’s lips. 

He closes his eyes, and it’s not. Not home, but the sun warms him from the inside, makes him feel like he’s glowing all over. 

He reaches his hand out for a slice. 

There’s a soft chuckle next to him, a shuffle, and then Billy’s a-hundred-and-sixty-pounds heavier, and Harrington’s draped all over him, covering him with his whole body, one inch height difference and all. 

It’s suffocating. 

‘What’re you doin’?’ 

When Harrington scoffs, Billy can taste peach in his breath. Can feel it on his lips. He thinks he could get drunk on it. 

‘You keep asking me that, heartbreaker. Open up.’ 

Billy’s wired to obey, so he. He opens up, and Harrington grunts like he’s the one pressed against concrete. Pushes a slice into Billy’s mouth, slowly, breath catching when Billy’s lips close around his fingers. Hips already rolling, pushing down, grinding against where Billy’s already filling out, stretching the lycra. Where Harrington’s already hard, too. 

‘Steve,’ Billy gasps, breathless, one bite away from begging, ‘don’t tease.’ 

‘Who’s teasing?’ Harrington slithers a hand down to cup him through the fabric, chuckling when Billy arches up, chasing it, opening his mouth to swallow mouthfuls of heat, and then Harrington. 

Bites half a slice. Feeds the other half straight into Billy’s mouth, Lady-and-the-fuckin’-Tramp style, and Billy counts a heartbeat, and they’re not kissing, and then he counts one more, and they are. 

Harrington’s lips are sticky against his, and his fingers are sticky, too, when they reach inside Billy’s trunks, wrap around him, fruit juice mixing with sweat and heat and pre. Billy bares his throat, and Harrington follows him, doesn’t let go of his mouth, so Billy. He has to, bites at Harrington’s lip, just a bit, bites his jaw too, and it punches a groan out of Harrington, a soft little _fuck **fuck**_ , enough to send him untying his shorts, too, and then it’s. 

It’s skin, on skin, on skin, and it’s Harrington breathing life into him, and Billy gulping it down, and it’s the sun scorching his skin, except he can’t see it, because Harrington’s the only thing he can see, Harrington’s taking its place, becoming the sun, and it’s. 

‘Open your eyes,’ Harrington waits for Billy to. Obey, like he always, always does, cups Billy’s face in his hand, tilts it up, ‘c’mon, heartbreaker, look a’ me,’ and when Billy. Does, looks at him, does what he’s told, Harrington whispers, ‘Do you dream about me?’ and he. 

He crashes their hips together, and their mouths too, and Billy comes, feeding a howl down Harrington’s throat. 

Harrington buries his nose under Billy’s jaw, and he licks at sweat and juice and heat, and he doesn’t make a sound when he comes. 

Billy’s palms slide down to rest on Harrington’s lungs, feel his breathing, ragged, skipping beats. Billy thinks, _I did that_ , and it tastes like peach. 

Harrington opens his eyes. Huffs a laugh at Billy, ruffles his hair before. Standing up. Wincing at the mess they made. His hand’s dripping white, and he wipes it on his shorts, wipes. Wipes Billy off him. 

‘Don’t move.’ 

Billy. Wouldn’t. Isn’t sure gravity’s still working for him. There are hurricanes, and there’s Harrington, and everything’s in ruins. 

Harrington walks back to him. With. The hose. 

One moment Billy’s floating in space, and the next he’s got water in his lungs, and Harrington laughing above him. Straddling him. Kissing water into him. Drowning him with rain from above. 

It’s. He looks—Harrington looks. Beautiful like that. Droplets of water dripping down his hair, face golden, like the sun was put in the sky to fall on him, light him on fire, scorch a crown on his head. 

He looks so. Alive, and Billy. Billy did that. 

He grabs the back of Harrington’s neck, crashes their mouths together, keeps him from going anywhere, anywhere. Feeds him his oath. Licks devotion into his mouth, hopes it sticks to his gums, rots his teeth with it. Hopes Harrington can taste him every time he breathes. 

‘Pity I cleaned both of us up,’ Harrington laughs, ‘shoulda scooped some of that up.’ He winks, goes, ‘Peaches and cream.’ 

And. Okay, that’s. Just. So bad, so Billy groans. Pushes him off, kinda, not. Not too far. ‘Ugh, that was. Harrington. That was _awful_.’ 

‘What,’ Harrington catches a curl round a finger. Noses his way up Billy’s temple. Smiling all along. ‘All of it?’ 

‘No,’ Billy says, mind shattering in a million tiny pieces. Harrington’s still. So close. It’s. It’s suffocating. ‘Everything else was. Good.’ 

Harrington hums in his ear, and Billy. Wants to. He needs to _know_. 

‘What was it?’ He scratches at Harrington’s scalp with his fingers, to make him hum again. To make Billy shake with it again, too. ‘This, I mean, what. What was this?’ 

Harrington gives him a funny look, kinda. Screaming victory under the sun before standing up. Grabbing a towel from one of the chairs. 

‘You won’t be seeing me for the next couple months, wonder boy. Figured I had to make sure you won’t forget me.’ 

Billy wants. Wants to reach out, wants to laugh, wants to scream _won’t ever, won’t fuckin’ ever_ , except. Harrington’s still smiling like he won, and. 

‘Three,’ he says, watches as Harrington freezes, towel almost forgotten in his hands. ‘’s three months. Won’t be coming back till September. Just in time for school.’ 

‘What?’ 

Billy sits up to face Harrington. You can’t take on a fight lying down, that much he knows. ‘I’m going home. For the summer, I. I told you about it.’ 

Harrington squares his jaw, and Billy can almost hear his molars grinding. He can taste the anger. Tastes like peach. 

‘No,’ Harrington says, ‘you didn’t. The whole family?’ 

‘Huh. Thought I did. I told Tommy, I thought. I told you.’ Billy shrugs, and he watches as victory drips off Harrington’s shoulders, drips-drips-drips down the concrete, meets sun and heat and peach. ‘No, just. Jus’me.’ 

Harrington nods to himself for a second. It’s coming off him in waves, the itch to. Fight. ‘Neil okay with that?’ 

‘Wouldn’t be goin’ if he wasn’t.’ 

Harrington takes a step. Passes him the towel. It’s wet, and used, and there’s a clean one laying folded on the other chair. Billy takes it Harrington’s. 

‘Where’re you staying?’ 

Billy keeps his voice even, and low, and not. Not daring. He knows all about minefields. He can read the sign from miles away. One wrong word and. ‘Max has an aunt in Glendale. Gonna take me in for the summer.’ 

‘Why doncha just stay, then? If you got a place to. Back _home_.’ 

Billy huffs a breath. Regrets it the moment Harrington’s eyes find his, something dark and stormy and unsettling swimming in them. ‘I’m. Still a minor, Steve. Neil’s still my guardian.’ 

Harrington doesn’t answer, doesn’t move, and Billy. Wants to reach out, wants to touch, to. Soothe. 

He wants to. Stay. 

‘You’ll be gone for most of it, too, right? Spain, or. With your parents? And I’ll be back for one more year. I. I’ll be back.’ 

It’s on its setting course now. The sun. Drowns everything in flames, red and orange and. Dangerous. Pours over the trees, a blanket of fire. 

Billy thinks of the wildfires back home. Endless land, stretching out for miles. On fire. 

Harrington keeps his eyes on the trees when he speaks again. 

‘Better be going, then, huh? Go pack your bags. Get some rest before you. Head back home.’ He snatches back the towel when Billy holds it out for him. His knuckles match the white of the tiles, downdowndown at the bottom of the pool. ‘Still got some stuff to do before my flight tomorrow too.’ 

Billy gets kinda. Dizzy with how fast he stands up. It’s cavernous, the distance between them. Harrington’s so close, and he’s. 

Billy can’t reach him. 

‘Steve,’ he starts, begs, almost, begs, completely, everything in him begging and begging, and. ‘Listen, I’ll. It’s just three months, it’s not. Steve, just—’ 

Harrington chuckles, and lowers his head, and when he lifts it back up, locks Billy’s eyes in his, it’s. He looks. 

Billy takes a step back. 

He knows what that look means. 

‘I’ll go,’ he says, and his mouth bleeds peach and sun and heat. 

He’s bleeding. 

Harrington scoffs, and he says _see ya around_ , and he doesn’t say _Billy_ , he doesn’t say _heartbreaker_ , and it’s. 

Billy. His hand’s still sticky when he opens the door. Leaves the handle sticky, too, with Harrington’s fancy peach juice, and Harrington’s sweat, and Harrington’s come. 

Leaves Harrington something to remember Billy by, too. 

Billy doesn’t feel the heat anymore. Feels like the cold’s settled over his bones for good. 

* * *

The airport door slides closed behind him, and Billy walks out of the shade. 

The sun hits him all at once, washes over him in waves, and Billy closes his eyes, and takes a breath, and feels more alive than he’s felt in days, and months, and years. 

He finds Luce’s place. Stays long enough to meet her. Long enough to drop his bag, change into his trunks, say _hi_ and _pleasure_ and _thanks for letting me stay, thank you_. Long enough to say _I’ll be back for supper, gotta check out the beach you got out here_ , long enough to decide he likes her smile, and her place, and the way the blue beads in front of the window make the room look like it’s underwater, almost. 

Long enough to grab a peach from the fruit bowl at the kitchen table. 

He stays in the water for hours before he has to come back up for breath. He lays on the sand, nothing but blue above him, nothing but blue ahead, and he. He thinks his ribcage is too small to contain all that blue. All that happiness. 

He thinks he’ll die from it. 

He reaches inside his bag. Takes out the stolen peach, a small sun in his hand. 

He takes a bite, one bite out of his own little sun, and sunlight floods his mouth, and he. 

He thinks. Harrington was right. 

He liked it better without the fuzz. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alexa play u can't always get what u want  
> don't come for me i promise i love peaches so much? anyway here's my [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/) if u wanna like. talk or w/e


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> should i give out a warning about Super Sad billy and Really Mean steve or do u guys know me by now,

It’s the middle of June, and Billy remembers what it feels like to have a choice again. 

His skin turns caramel under the sun, and it’s his choice. 

It makes him giddy, that thought. Makes him wanna beat his chest and roar, a wild animal set free. 

Makes him feel like there are wings growing out his back, two great big things, sun-kissed, sun-molten. His own little piece of salvation. 

It’s just as well he knows not to fly too close to the sun by now. 

It’s the middle of June, and Billy has a choice again, and he. He can, now. 

He has a choice, two long legs walking his way, black curls in a messy bun, widewide _wide_ shoulders, striding. His way. A smile almost as bright as the sun to wrap the present with a bow, and Billy. 

Thinks _I can_. Thinks _I could_ , thinks _he’s not here, Neil, he’s not here, neither of them are_ , he thinks— 

He could. He could. Latch sun-bitten palms onto these shoulders. Find out how if that smile tastes like water left too long under the sun. 

He could. 

He could break someone’s heart. Shatter it in a million tiny pieces, with just one kiss. 

He could break someone’s heart. Fulfill the prophecy. 

The thought crashes into him like a ten-ton truck. Leaves him gasping for breath on the beach, heaving on the sand. Leaves something rotten, and acrid, and black in his mouth. Floods it with the taste of peach. 

He gets up so fast the water turns red. By the time he’s far out, gathers up the courage to look back at the beach, he’s. All alone. 

It’s not his. The choice. 

Still not his. 

* * *

Max calls. 

Two times a week. Tuesdays and Fridays, like clockwork. The shell-shaped phone next to his bed wakes him up at the crack of dawn, because _he just left, asshole, I don’t wanna risk it, whaddya need a beauty sleep for, anyway, ya think that can save your ugly mug or somethin’_ , and Billy. 

He wakes up on the first ring. He lets it go for three more, because Max is a bitch who wakes him up at six every Friday. Because she calls, two times a week. Because she makes sure Neil’s just left for work. 

Because she always asks _how’s the beach_ , and she. She means _I’m glad I don’t need to ask if you’re safe_. 

Because she’s keeping him safe, so. 

Billy lets it ring four times before picking up. Gives him almost enough time to work around the lump that appears mysteriously in his throat every Tuesday and Friday at six o’fuckin’clock. 

She always asks _how you doin’ out there_ before hanging up, always small and quiet and wistful, almost, and Billy. Always, always comes back with _I spend all day at the beach, dumbo, how do ya think I’m doin’_ , and they. 

They both know it means all that, and. 

So much more. 

She hangs up with a wet kinda laugh, always, and Billy spends every Tuesday and Friday morning fighting back the urge to take the highway to hell and bring her home. 

* * *

He counts four Tuesdays, counts four Fridays, and a month’s gone by, and it’s the fourth of July, and Billy. 

Asks. 

Luce’s got a backyard. A pretty little thing, strewn with daffodils. Overflowing with weeds. Got a couple chairs, fairy lights hanging from the wooden railing, the lot. 

Feels more like home than any of the roofs Neil put over his head ever did. 

She’s holding a flare, Luce, head tipped back to catch the fireworks. She’s got the blackest eyes Billy’s ever seen. Two giant black holes on her face, but. They’re not sucking life in them. 

Billy feels more alive than he’s felt in years. 

He likes that black, he decides. Likes it more than washed out blue. 

Not more than warm, fiery brown though. 

‘Luce?’ he starts. Waits for her hum, knows she wouldn’t take her eyes off the colors in the sky for him. He likes that about her. He likes that about her, _too_. ‘Sue—before I came down here. She said you. Wouldn’t be living alone.’ 

She kinda. Snorts into her beer bottle, lips already tilting upwards to meet the fireworks. She turns to him, ‘That right?’ and Billy. Like. Isn’t hiding behind his bottle, like. At all, but he hears her more than he sees her huff something amused, go, ‘That all Sue said?’ 

Billy says _uh_ , and he says _she. uh_ , and he gulps down a few sips to wet his throat before Luce takes pity on him. 

‘Ask me what you wanna know and maybe you’ll get some answers, _chico_.’ 

Neil flashes through his mind. Neil and three letters, f-and-a-and-g, three punches, one-two-three and you’re cured, and he thinks this one doesn’t apply here, thinks. Thinks there’s another one, four letters, d-and-y-and-k-and-e, different word, same. Same meaning. 

Same type of bleeding, both of them. 

He wonders if the cure’s ever been punched into her, too. 

He gulps down a breath, stale beer and daffodils and colors in the sky. ‘She said. You were living with a girl. Friend.’ He winces. Tries again, tries to be more gentle this time. Not a punch. ‘A girlfriend.’ 

She’s looking at him, kinda amused, kinda. Walls raised, and Billy wants to crawl out of his skin, wants. Wants to get in a car, drive a day and a half to get to Neil, wants. To give back everything he’s ever gotten, punch for punch. Cure for cure. 

She’s not scared of him, he knows that, but it’s. Neil’s world they live in. Walls raised and fists ready and a bitter taste of cure on their tongues. 

It’s already out his mouth before he can think twice, ‘I don’t mind that you’re—’ and Luce. 

Fuckin’. Laughs at his face, head tipped back, catching blue and red and yellow from the sky. ‘I don’t give a fuck whether you do or don’t, niño,’ and she looks. So defensive, so. Used to it, except. 

She must see something broken, and pliant, and liquid on his face, because she. Sighs, shoulders sagging from where they’d met her ears. Goes, ‘That’s not what I. God, it’s been a while I’ve talked to Suse, huh? I broke up with Nia months ago.’ She takes a sip. ‘We weren’t. Good for each other,’ says it around a mouthful. 

Billy thinks it’d sound wet and raspy anyway. 

He doesn’t. Really know how to. Deal with this. What to say. He’s never done this, offering comfort. Never had any offered to him, so. 

‘’m sorry,’ he mutters, hopes his voice carries more warmth than the words do. He doesn’t know what to say. He doesn’t. Know any better. 

She laughs, kinda, says, ‘Don’t be,’ says, ‘Gotta learn to keep the good people in your life,’ says. 

She says, ‘You’re one of the good ones, huh.’ 

Like she only just saw him for the first time. 

Billy. Wonders what she’s seeing. He’s terrified to ask. He mumbles, ‘’m really not,’ instead, because. It’s the truth. He’s not. Being better than Neil doesn’t. Make him good. Just. Better. 

She frowns at him. ‘You got someone back home?’ 

Billy’s head snaps up so fast he makes fireworks explode behind his eyes, too. Rivaling the ones in the sky. ‘Hawkins ain’t home. Never fuckin’ will be.’ 

He looks away, chews on the inside of his cheek hard enough to justify the wetness in the corners of his eyes. Doesn’t turn to her even when she calls him, a soft little _Billy_. 

He doesn’t. Deserve soft. He’s not _good_. 

‘Billy,’ she says, so. So fuckin’ gentle, so—‘that. Person you got back in Hawkins.’ She catches his eye when he turns wide eyes on her, she. Sucks in a breath, tugs at a loose thread on her shirt, she. Says, ‘He. Treatin’ you well?’ 

Billy licks at his lips, tries to lick the beer off. The peach, too. He hasn’t stopped licking peach off since— 

‘I don’t have good people in my life.’ It stings, saying it out loud. He hopes. Hopes each word lands like a stone, and. Stings, too. ‘Let it go, alright?’ 

He stands up. Gets back inside. He doesn’t need any more fireworks. He’s seen every shade of blue and red and yellow on his skin before. He’ll see ‘em again real soon. 

No more fireworks. 

* * *

He’s almost asleep when the door creaks open. Two thousand miles away, that’d mean a bloody nose by now. 

It just means a dip in the mattress, here. Luce sighing next to him. 

Means a _hey, chico_ , croaky and grating, like Luce needed to smoke some courage in. 

Billy turns around from facing the wall. Faces her instead, her two black eyes in the dark. 

‘Sorry ‘bout before.’ 

She shakes her head, her brows scrunched in a frown. ‘I was thinkin’, she starts, coughs down the raspiness before going on, ‘you’re graduating this year, right? So I thought. Maybe we could. Go look at some colleges. Together. Go around the campuses, see if. You find something you like.’ 

Billy’s. So grateful for the darkness around them. She can’t see how his eyes are shining, that way. ‘Not sure what I wanna do once school’s over.’ 

‘All the more reason to look around,’ she shrugs. Like she’s not turning Billy’s world upside down. He’s never been offered an out before. Comfort. It’s. ‘It’ll just be for fun, okay? Just to get an idea. Nothing set in stone, or anythin’. How you said it before, I figured you’d wanna. Get outta that place fast as you can.’ 

Billy closes his eyes, and he thinks of brown, and embers dying down, and the taste of peach on his lips. He wants. He wants out. He wants— 

‘Yeah, alright.’ He nods, once, curls bouncing on the pillow. ‘Let’s do it.’ 

She laughs, and she runs a hand through his hair, messes it up real good, and Billy. Can’t. Let that go, so. 

She hums when he calls her, _hey Luce?_ , already halfway out the door. 

‘You sure you’re not just looking to score some college chicks?’ 

‘Hey,’ she chuckles, a halo of light from the kitchen shining around her, safe, safe, safe. ‘One of us has to.’ 

* * *

She lets him roast himself crispy under the sun for another week before she brings it up again. 

Well. 

Less. Brings it up, more. Wakes him up with a shirt thrown on his head and the smell of freshly brewed coffee under his nose. 

More, ‘Get up, guapo. We got a lotta ground to cover.’ 

More a car hot like the inside of an oven, and a radio stuck to some kinda. Weird Cuban music-exclusive station, _‘s called bolero, dumbass, hick taste’s rubbing off on ya_ , and a map shoved on his lap, a dozen little blue dots that spell _getting the fuck out_. 

More. A road stretching ahead of them for miles, and a cooler bag stuffed to the brim with sandwiches, because _we ain’t got time to waste on drive-throughs, chiquito_ , and. 

An open window. Catching the wind under his palm. Catching the sun under his eyelids. 

Reaching out and catching hope between his fingers for the first time in years. 

He finds he kinda. Likes the music, after all. 

* * *

Ten colleges later and twelve days into August. Harrington calls. 

Well. Thirteen days. Billy blinks at the green digits, 01:34, wakes up enough to add three to that. Harrington’s seeing 04:34, and that. 

That means. 

‘Hey, heartbreaker,’ he drawls, and. 

Billy hasn’t ever had a bag of bricks fall on his chest, but. He thinks he knows how it’d feel like. 

Harrington’s drunk. He’s. He’s drunk, and he’s calling Billy, and it’s the middle of the night, less night, more morning, and he’s. 

‘You back?’ 

Harrington snorts ungracefully. ‘Nah, man, ‘m still in Andalucia. Payin’ a small fortune jus’ ta hear your voice.’ 

_You would_ , Billy thinks. _You fucker, you would_. _Just to hear my voice_. 

‘So. What, you thought you’d get blind drunk on smuggled tequila?’ 

‘ _Orujo_ ,’ Harrington says, slurs it, really. He still manages to sound. Fucking superior. ‘’ssa type’a brandy. ‘spensive. _Strong_.’ 

He draws out the _o_ , and Billy thinks he can hear him gulping down some more. Getting shitfaced on his stupid fancy brandy. 

Billy hears him gulping, and then there’s rustling into his ear, like Harrington’s lying down, and Billy. Almost drops the receiver when he hears a metallic kinda sound, _thunk_ , like. 

Like Harrington’s unbuckling his jeans. 

There’s a grunt, a drawn-out sigh, content, and then. ‘She know?’ Harrington asks, ‘’tha’ chick you’re stayin’ with. She know ‘bout you?’ 

Billy blinks sleep away, trades it for. Blind panic for a second. Before he remembers where he is. 

‘Steve—’ 

‘I mean. Can ya brin’ guys home or do ya hafta. Hide out there, too?’ 

Billy lets the phone rest on the pillow, Harrington breathing heavy in his ear. Lets his palms wander lower, lets his nails latch onto the meat of his thighs. Sink deep. Hopes that way he can stop the blood rushing down. 

Hopes the connection’s bad enough Harrington can’t hear the trembling in his voice when he whispers, ‘Steve. You’re drunk.’ 

Harrington scoffs, follows it with a moan, walks Billy one step closer to losing his mind. ‘Sure am. Tell me ‘bout’em. Th’guys down there.’ 

‘There’s nothin’ to—’ Billy lets out a groan, follows the one Harrington shoved in the air between them. He can hear him now, can see him, almost. Lying on his king-sized bed, one hand wrapped around himself, breathing heavy into the receiver. Thinking about. About Billy. ‘God, Steve, what. What’d y’want me to say, huh? I spent all summer bent over with a dick up my ass? That what you wanna hear?’ 

‘Fuck.’ Harrington sounds so. Gone. Blind-drunk on his fancy brandy, voice broken and raspy and. Ruined. He sounds so. Close. ‘Fuck, ‘s that what you—baby. Tell me you’re lyin’ Billy, baby, jus’—’ 

Billy—the air’s punched out of his lungs so acid-fast he forgets how to take any back in, that word. Ringing in his ears, _baby baby baby_ _Billy baby_ , and he. Doubles over, one hand between his legs, heel pressed flat against the pulse beating something frantic there, one clasped around the phone, that. Stupid shell-shaped phone, pearly pink and tacky as all hell, the first phone Billy’s ever been allowed in the room he sleeps in. 

He thinks _baby, baby, baby_ , and he says, ‘Steve,’ and it. Sounds the same. 

‘Steve,’ he says, gasps, begs, ‘jus’you, I just. Jus’wan’you, no one else, only ever—’ 

Harrington says _baby_ , fills the word with something like awe, something holy, and Billy moans like a wounded animal, makes the sound come out the shape of His name, _Steve_ , a prayer, a vow, and. 

There’s a groan, crackling and dragged out and split in half, and then. 

Everything. 

Stops. 

He’s not breathing, Billy, and Harrington’s not breathing. either, and the clock buzzes two, buzzes five over the line. 

Three hours and two thousand miles and two breaths apart. 

Billy’s not breathing. 

He’s not—he’s been _Billy_ , and he’s been. _Heartbreaker_ , only in name, not in action, never. Fulfilling the prophecy, but he’s. 

He’s never been— 

Harrington chuckles in his ear, and Billy. Thinks, _I know what he sounds like before the sun rises, now_. 

He knows how Harrington sounds six states over, half-mad on Spanish brandy, how he. Sounds when he comes by his own hand. 

How he. Licks his mouth and spits out Billy’s name. 

It’s August, and Billy’s been _Billy_ , and he’s been _heartbreaker_ , and he’s never been _baby_ before. 

Harrington chuckles, sounds kinda. Far away when he mutters, ‘Fuck, tha’was good,’ like he’s not lying down anymore, maybe. Maybe cleaning himself up, cleaning himself off, off Billy, off _baby_ , and when he lies back down he. 

Hums, goes, ‘Oh, hey, you. Still on th’line?’ Sounds almost. Surprised, almost. Annoyed. 

Billy was _baby_ three seconds ago. 

He licks his lips, sun and ocean and peach, gets as far as _yeah, still_ — before Harrington groans like he’s stretching his arms, goes, ‘’m beat, pal, g’nna go to sleep,’ around a yawn. 

Hangs—hangs up. 

Two thousand miles away. The distance between _baby_ and. _Pal_. 

Billy lets a whole minute roll by. Stares at a point in the dark, the phone beep-beep-beeping his ear away, that stupid dial tone where Harrington was calling him _baby_ a minute ago. 

He takes his hands off his thighs. Swallows down something bitter. 

He doesn’t come. 

He doesn’t sleep, either. 

* * *

On the last Tuesday of August, Max calls him earlier than usual. 

He’s been rising before the sun, these last two weeks, running off to the beach before the crowds settle in, soaking. Soaking warmth, locking it under his skin. Getting ready for another winter in Hawkins, so. 

He’s halfway through his breakfast wrap, left in the fridge overnight. Luce’s specialty, Luce’s. Special gift for him, each bite a goodbye, a note, _sunscreen and sunglasses, freckles_ , pinned on the foil, when the phone rings. 

He kinda. Jumps to pick it up. Got everything to do with how Luce’s still asleep. 

Nothing to do with how. His body’s been conditioned to breathe a little easier on Tuesdays and Fridays. 

One _hey, asshole_ , out of breath like she’s always been running, never stopping, not for a second, and Billy. 

Breathes again. 

‘Whatcha doin’ up this early, chicken?’ 

She huffs, right in his ear, like she’s holding the phone on her shoulder. Something. Falls, and she mutters _shit, fu—dammit_ , before mumbling, ‘’m gonna be late,’ around a mouthful of. Something. 

‘Max,’ Billy chuckles, so. So fuckin’ happy to. Know she’s somewhere out there. Dropping stuff and spewing curses like a sailor, kinda like him, and talking with her mouth full. ‘Chew first, ‘kay? Then talk.’ He takes a bite out of his breakfast, to prove his point, to prove hers, _hey, asshole_ and all. ‘Late for what?’ 

‘El’s picking me up in,’ she cuts off, mumbles _oh, shit_ under her breath, ‘ten, and I’m still getting dressed, I’m gonna be so—’ 

‘Who’s El?’ 

Max. Falters. ‘El’s. She’s a girl. We skate together, ‘m teaching her tricks ‘n stuff, and like. She’s even worse than you? Never thought I’d see the day.’ 

Billy feels a laugh climbing its way up his throat. Lets it bubble over, here, two thousand miles away, a garden of daffodils and joy outside his window. ‘Been scraping your knees all summer, kid?’ 

The noise at the other end of the line. Stops, and Max’s voice comes very, very quiet, ‘You’re back in two days, right? You’ll. See then, I guess.’ 

‘Yeah,’ he swallows, swallows down all the joy he can get, here where it grows, ‘guess I’ll see you on Thursday, huh.’ She’s still silent, and Billy. Asks. ‘He said anythin’?’ 

‘No.’ It’s out of her mouth before his question’s out of his. ‘He hasn’t really. Talked about you. At all. Not once.’ 

Billy heaves a sigh. He’s only got a few, he thinks. A few breaths of ocean and daffodils and. Joy. ‘Right, yeah. ‘Course he. Didn’t. Listen. Max, uh. Tell him, okay? I’ll be back by noon, just so he. Knows.’ 

Max sniffles, kinda, and a car horns over the line, and everything starts. Moving again. 

‘Shit,’ she breathes, ‘El’s here. I’ll. I won’t forget, promise. I’ll tell him.’ 

‘Okay, kid,’ he says, and, ‘have fun,’ and, ‘see ya in a coupla days,’ and he. 

He hangs up. 

Not fast enough to miss a breathy little _missed ya lots_ , wet and cracked and achingly, terribly. 

Dripping with love. 

* * *

He doesn’t cry. 

Luce doesn’t, either. She keeps saying it, over and over and over, how this isn’t goodbye. 

_Got used to ya, chico_ , she says. _You’ll be back, right?_ she says. 

_Get out of here fast as you can_ , she says. 

_Bring your boy with you, but get out_ , she says, and then she hugs him, and sneaks a wrap into his backpack, each bite a goodbye, and. 

The cab turns round a corner, and Luce’s not there anymore. 

No more joy. 

* * *

Max has a nasty bruise over her left knee, skin scraped and festering and blood-red, and Billy. 

Almost asks, if something. Happened, except Max literally fuckin’. Slams her board to the ground, and does the single most dramatic run Billy’s ever witnessed, already kinda decided he’ll give her so much shit for it later, and then. 

He kinda. Can’t move. He’s got an armful of fire, Max hugging him tight with a force teenage hurricanes should absolutely not possess. 

He squeezes her tight against him for a second, and then he pushes her off, like, _lemme breath, you bitch_ , and they’re both kinda watery-eyed about it, but. 

‘Next time I’m coming with,’ she declares, grave as the heart attack she almost welcomed him with, and. 

Billy laughs, at the trees and the sky and the stupid fuckin’ fields surrounding them, nothing but trees and sky and fields, and one. One more thing Billy’s itching to get to. He laughs, and he ruffles Max’s hair, and he says, ‘Next time I won’t be comin’ back,’ and. 

He believes it, just then. 

* * *

Harrington picks up on the third ring. 

‘Hang on,’ is what he greets Billy with, and Billy hasn’t even. Uttered a single syllable, ‘cord’s all tangled up.’ There’s a pause, _this fuckin’ thing_ muttered somewhere in the distance, and. ‘Shoot.’ 

He was _baby_ , last time he heard Harrington’s voice. Billy was _baby_ , and Harrington was. Drunk out of his wits. 

‘Your folks home?’ 

Billy thinks he’s imagining the way Harrington’s breath catches at the other end of the line. He. He hopes he’s not. 

‘You’re back.’ 

‘Got in a couple hours ago. Can I come over?’ 

Harrington scoffs, and he doesn’t. Say anything for a second, and then. ‘Nah, place’s still a mess. The alley behind Melvald’s in twenty,’ and. 

There’s no one left to hear Billy’s whispered _I missed you_ but the dial tone beep-beep-beeping in his ear. 

* * *

He’s got his back against brick five minutes too early. 

Harrington’s not there yet, and Billy snatches a smoke from his pack. Flicks his zippo open. Does his best to ignore the way his hands are shaking with anticipation. 

It’s been too long. 

He takes a drag, feels his insides graying up with smoke, head falling back against the wall. He blows the smoke up the sky, emptying his lungs just in time for a chuckle, and a mumbled _long time no see, heartbreaker_ , and then his lungs aren’t empty anymore. 

Harrington’s panting in his mouth, blowing breath into Billy. Blowing life into him. 

It’s been so long. 

Billy’s pressed against the wall, every inch of his body covered by Harrington, but he pushes for some space, hands coming up to cradle Harrington’s face, keep him still while he bites at Harrington’s lips, licks a stripe up his tongue, cleans the taste off from behind his teeth. 

He’s. 

God, he’s starving. 

He’s starving, and they’re in public, and Billy’s. He’s not home anymore, not. Not safe. 

They can’t be doing this here. They could. Be doing this somewhere else, anywhere else, where Billy could sink his teeth where he’s itching to, feel Harrington’s pulse beat under his tongue, get Harrington to make some noise for him, loud enough to drown out the sound of Hawkins all around them, they could be— 

‘You still got the ocean on you,’ Harrington breathes against his lips, tongue coming out to lap at Billy’s bottom lip, ‘tastes like salt.’ 

Billy chuckles a bit at that, like. ‘Keep insulting my personal hygiene, sweetheart, gets me hot all over,’ and he. He watches as Harrington’s eyes go black at. That word, slipped out of Billy’s mouth so easily, like it was hibernating under his tongue until it found its owner. 

‘Listen, can’t we. Take this someplace else? I wanna—’ 

‘What?’ Harrington laughs, thumb tracing a line across Billy’s mouth, kinda. Stopping him from talking. ‘You been thinkin’ about this? Spent all summer dreaming of it? What you wanna do to me?’ 

He must. Take in Billy’s breathing right then, broken like it’s dragged through shards of glass, the bolts of lightning behind Billy’s eyes, a storm brewing, a fuckin’. Monsoon, threatening to tip them both over. Flood this cursed landlocked place with it. 

‘Shit,’ he breathes, holy and reverent and soaked in awe, soaked in. Fear, almost, ‘Shit. You. Really missed me, didncha?’ 

‘We pretendin’ you didn’t miss me?’ 

Harrington’s breathing so fast against him. Too fast, brows knitted with wonder on his forehead. Eyes two black wolves hunting over Billy’s face. Billy can see the edge of a canine glinting between Harrington’s lips, parted like he’s fixing to. Say something. 

Howl. 

He scoffs, instead, face locking up. Roll the shutters down, throw away the key. He takes a step backwards, lets space and oxygen between them, leaves Billy gasping for breath. 

‘Here,’ he says, palm held upwards to reveal one of these. Organza pouches, kinda grey, kinda blue, kinda green. Made for jewelry, like the. Two small things jingling inside. ‘that’s for you.’ 

Billy’s fingers barely trace the fabric before Harrington snatches the thing back, ‘Actually,’ unties the kinda grey-kinda blue-kinda green bow, empties the contents on his palm. Holding a piece of the ocean in it. Two little clam shells, ocean blue and sparkling when they catch the one stray ray of sun who got lost in this alley, in this town. 

Ocean blue the exact. Shade of Billy’s eyes. 

Almost like he’s holding Billy in his palm, too. 

‘Take that out,’ Harrington nods towards Billy’s ear, the silver hoop hugging his lobe. He smiles something feral when Billy. Obeys. He unclasps one shell, just the one, drops the other one back in the pouch. Back in his pocket. 

He pushes back into Billy’s space. Takes back the ground he surrendered. 

He doesn’t. Ask for permission, just. Tilts Billy’s head to the side, pins him with a look, _don’t move, don’t you dare_. Too close to familiar for comfort, that look, that. That threat. 

Harrington. Slides the earring in its place, kinda. Lets out a shaky breath at the way Billy shudders at the cold metal meeting skin. 

He clasps it tight, almost. Almost too tight, and he. Leans in, lips brushing Billy’s ear first, then licking around the shell, then. ‘Made me think of you,’ kissing the words on him. 

His eyes are blown-up supernovas when he pulls back, and Billy. Knows, he knows they’re matching his, setting planets off to make new universes, or. 

Maybe just the one. A universe just for them. 

‘Y’know Cali’s like. Packed with shells, right?’ Billy buries his smile, his biggest fuckin’ smile, under Harrington’s jaw, lips tingling when Harrington huffs, scorned, the royal fuckin’ asshole, starts pulling away before Billy reels him back in. Teeth. Sinking into soft skin, closing around a half-mad pulse. 

Harrington throws his head back, and Billy kisses the path up to his lips, ‘I love it,’ licks at them until Harrington gasps, lets him in, ‘gonna lemme have the other one too, or?’ 

‘Nah,’ Harrington drawls, voice a kiss away from snapping in half, ‘think ‘m gonna keep that one.’ 

Billy. Laughs into his mouth, in this dark fuckin’ alley, in this cursed fuckin’ town, he. He laughs into Harrington’s mouth. ‘Your ears aren’t pierced, sweetheart.’ 

Harrington raises one brow, goes, ‘Yet,’ in this tone, his proudest fuckin’ tone, and Billy. Growls a bit against his lips, grinds his hips against Harrington’s, feels. Feels like he’s maybe losing his mind a little. 

‘Don’t joke about that, Steve, god, that’s—’ 

He trails off. By the way Harrington’s panting between them, Billy thinks. He gets it. 

His fingers close around metal inside his pocket, and he snakes his arms around Harrington’s neck, and Harrington is dazed enough, doesn’t. Look down until he hears the click. 

He frowns at the black chain around his neck, at the. The tiny pendant, a trident, or. A crown turned upside down. 

‘What—’ 

‘’s a trident.’ Billy keeps his eyes on it, his gift around Harrington’s neck. He thinks. If he’ll look into Harrington’s eyes. He’ll dissolve. ‘’s meant to be Poseidon’s. King—king of the sea.’ 

He looks up then, finds Harrington locked on him, his face, his eyes, his. His mouth, eyes all up in flames, melting Billy’s skin off his bones. He shrugs. Helpless. ‘Made me think of you,’ he echoes. 

That’s all he is, now. Just an echo. 

When Harrington swallows, Billy feels it under his fingertips. Millions of tiny electric jolts lighting him up from the inside. 

A car horns somewhere in the distance, and kids are laughing, somewhere far away, and Billy wonders. How can the world keep turning, cars and kids and people going on with their lives, he doesn’t. 

He doesn’t know how they do it, because Harrington’s hand lands right above his hip bone, clicking into place like two. Two missing fuckin’ pieces, and his fingers dig five half-moons on Billy, and his eyes aren’t hunting anymore, they’ve trapped and snatched and caught the prey, they’ve got teeth of their own, already. Digging in, tearing into flesh one bite at a time, and Harrington whispers, ‘Tell me you were thinkin’ about me,’ and Billy. 

He doesn’t know how the world goes on. 

‘Every wakin’ moment.’ He growls it into Harrington’s mouth. Prey’s not going down without a fight. ‘Every second of every fuckin’ day.’ 

Harrington. Grunts, muffles it on the end of a kiss, a. A bite, those sharp fuckin’ canines digging into Billy’s lip until they come up red when Harrington moves away. Out of Billy’s space. Gulps down lungfuls of air like it’s going out of fashion. 

Wipes his mouth on the back of his palm. Game over. 

The small upside-down crown is shaking with every shallow breath, up and down and up again, and Billy focuses on that. 

He doesn’t like that part. 

‘There’s a party on Sunday,’ Harrington’s looking somewhere in the distance, outside their brick prison. Sounds far away, too, like he’s. Already out of here. ‘Last one before senior year kicks our asses.’ He clears his throat, fingers absent-mindedly playing with Billy’s gift resting over his heart. He doesn’t even know he’s doing it, twirling it round and round, driving Billy wild with it. ‘Pick you up at nine?’ 

Billy wakes up enough to shake his head. ‘I just got back. Might. Not be a good idea.’ 

Harrington scowls at him for a second before it sets in. His knuckles whiten around the necklace. ‘I can come ask him for you.’ 

He says _ask_. He means _get permission_. To take the wild dog out. 

He lifts a hand to cup Billy’s face in it, ‘I want you there,’ and. 

The world keeps turning. 

‘No,’ Billy rasps, fast. Too fast. ‘No, I’ll. Do it. Sunday, nine. My place.’ 

He lets Harrington search over his face. Lets him take in the line of his jaw, poised tight with determination. He can fight his own battles. Has been, for. Years, and years, and years. Will be, for one more. 

He doesn’t miss the moment Harrington spends on his ear, hypnotized by. The little piece of ocean on Billy. Matching the one hidden safely on Harrington. 

The two missing pieces. 

Harrington searches all over, and he finds it, the key he needed, because he nods, once, and he. 

He leaves. Disappears into the light. 

Billy blinks, and he’s gone. Like. He was never really there. 

No one would believe him, if he tried to tell them. Harrington was there with him. 

No one would believe him. 

Like it never happened. 

* * *

They roll up to the party together. 

Drive there in the same car. Get there at the same fuckin’ time. Walk up the porch together, wave. Wave at the same people. Together. 

Billy doesn’t know what it means. 

They pass by a mirror, together, and for. A second, he thinks he can see two matching crowns on their heads. 

He blinks, and Tommy’s passing them red cups, and the crowns aren’t there anymore. 

* * *

Something’s. Off. 

Like a presence, following him around, a black cloud, thick and heavy and sinister, crackling over his head. 

He loses Harrington three minutes in. 

Well. 

He doesn’t. Lose him, Billy never. Never really loses Harrington, sonar sense tuned to his waves. 

He catches sight of him, moving around, socializing, a King amongst his people, and Billy. Can’t pin it down, but. 

Something’s off. 

The people drift in and out of Harrington’s orbit, and he doesn’t. Linger, doesn’t dwell around anyone, except. 

There’s this. This girl. Billy’s seen her before, and he can’t put it in the right context, not at first, not with three cups of whatever jinxed booze is flowing through his veins, but. 

It hits him, suddenly. All at once. He’s got his back against the wall, and his eyes hawking over Harrington, and. 

He almost doubles over, when he gets it. 

These eyes, sharp and bright and almost ocean-blue, almost. Almost like Billy’s. Byers’ girl. 

_I like her_ , Harrington’d said. Amused, and kinda like he just got sucker-punched, kinda. Like he got a kick out of it. 

_I like her_. 

She’s hovering around him, and he’s. He’s not drifting away. There’s something almost calculative behind the looks he’s throwing her way, a scheme brewing under the crown. 

Billy wants—he wishes he could cut open his head. Poke around inside to find what’s ticking, what’s turning, what’s three looks away from going off. 

He wants to _know_. 

Something’s off. 

* * *

Two hours in, he’s nursing one bitch of a headache, and it doesn’t. Register straight away. 

The stillness in the room. The silence. 

He spots Harrington in the middle of it, always in the middle of it. The eye of the fuckin’ hurricane. 

Harrington catches his eye, and he doesn’t. He doesn’t blink, doesn’t need to say a single word. Billy’s. Already rushing over to his side. 

The guy caught in Harrington’s storm looks. Real punchable, truth be told. He’s looking at Harrington the wrong way, and Billy’s not real keen on people giving Harrington the right kinda look, so. 

Yeah. Real punchable. 

Harrington’s arm wraps around Billy’s shoulders. When he speaks, he shakes Billy with it, too. 

He’s missed the first half of the argument, fixing to end in a fight, fixing to end with someone’s blood on someone’s knuckles, but Harrington nods his head towards Billy, and he says, ‘Billy here doesn’t like mouthy assholes, either,’ and. 

Well. 

Billy’s compelled to agree. 

He shakes his head. Gets a vision full of thunders for his efforts. ‘Nah, can’t stan’ jerks who meddle’n other people’s b’siness.’ 

‘That’s right.’ Harrington hums, and it drops like a bomb on the deadly fuckin’ silent room. ‘And. See. My pal Billy here. He nurtures a particular dislike about people who go around callin’ other people names when everyone’s jus’ tryin’ to have a good time.’ 

Billy’s. Kinda lost. He. Wants to get out of Harrington’s grasp. The cloud over his head is hissing and cracking and fizzing. 

Something’s off. 

He doesn’t answer, and Harrington gives him a shake, just enough to wake him up. Just enough to nod, and mumble _yeah, tha’s righ’_ , and wish he could get away. 

Harrington huffs like the show’s over, and Billy believes it, for the second it takes for Harrington to spin him around, and trap him inside the circle of his arms, and press their lips together. 

It doesn’t—it lasts for a beat, and Billy almost. Forgets, almost moans into Harrington’s mouth, almost lets his palms wander the path up to Harrington’s hair, almost. 

Almost kisses back. 

He almost forgets where they are, time suspended in this one single beat of his heart, of Harrington’s, and then the room isn’t silent anymore, and Harrington’s lips aren’t on his, and Harrington’s fist meets the guy’s real punchable fuckin’ face with a, ‘That faggy enough for ya?’ 

Billy doesn’t stick around to find out his answer. 

He’s bolting out the door so fast he loses the cloud somewhere in the process. He’s only left with whiskey on his lips, sour and tangy and. Not his. He hasn’t had a drop of whiskey all night. 

That’s not his, either. Not even that. 

He’s walking too fast. Breathing too fast, too. Too fast, and too loud, or maybe it just. Sounds loud in his ear, a booming kinda thing, because Harrington’s mouth was on his in a room full of people, and Neil doesn’t. He doesn’t know, and Billy’s meeting the sharp end of a fist and going rainbow anyway, and Billy. Knows what getting _out_ means now, has had a summer’s worth of daffodils and breakfast wraps and joy, and he. Wants that, he wants— 

‘Billy.’ An arm shoots out, wraps around his middle. Billy tries to fight it, three cups of jinxed punch an’ all. 

‘Hey, hey.’ Harrington’s got him locked in a hug, got his whole body pressed against Billy’s back, got his lips grazing Billy’s ear. 

Got Billy’s knees buckling. 

‘Hey,’ Harrington tries again, gently. Quietly. Just for Billy. ‘Where’re you goin’, huh?’ 

Billy thrashes around, tries to break out of Harrington’s embrace, but. Three cups of booze. ‘’m _tryin’_ to go home.’ 

‘I drove us here, baby.’ 

Billy says, ‘Could use the fresh air,’ and he doesn’t. Shiver at that word. 

He can’t— 

He can’t be _baby_ , not when Harrington’s lips were on his, not when they’re still pressed head-to-toe in the middle of Marisa Peale’s perfectly-cut lawn. 

Not when they’re in Hawkins, and Neil’s house is twelve blocks away. 

He’s trembling, and Harrington chuckles softly in his ear, and. Next thing he knows, Billy’s got his back pressed to the trunk of an oak, and Harrington looming over him. 

They’re hidden, like this. 

‘s almost like. Harrington read his mind. 

No one can see them here, and the buzz is wearing off, and Billy. 

Tastes whiskey on his lips. Wants to taste blood, too. 

He shoves Harrington, puts enough force in it to send him reeling. He follows him. Presses the heel of his palms on Harrington’s shoulders. Pushes. _Pushes_. ‘What the fuck is wrong with you?’ 

‘I don’t know what you mean, pal.’ Harrington raises his arms in surrender, a smirk taking over his face, wide as the stupid tree trunk. 

Billy wants to. Taste blood. ‘What the hell was that about back there?’ He’s yelling, he knows he is, and he’s still breathing. So fast, too. Too fast, and he gulps down stale Indiana air, heat and humidity, remnants of their sorry excuse of a summer, goes as far as, ‘If Neil—if he gets word—’ 

Doesn’t get to finish. 

Harrington crashes them together, bodies and hands and mouths, sends them falling back against the tree as one. 

No one can see them here. Nobody would believe Billy. 

Harrington scrapes his teeth over Billy’s tongue, swallows down the whine that follows, feeds Billy a quiet little laugh. Just for Billy. 

He pulls back, eyes two pieces of the night sky, dark and glinting with stars. ‘He won’t. Baby, he won’t find out. You were in there, everyone’s drunk outta their minds. Nobody’s gonna remember, trust me.’ He leaves a trace of a kiss above Billy’s eyebrow, ‘Nobody even noticed, alright? Was just a joke,’ lips burning the words on Billy’s skin. 

He grunts when Harrington rams their hips together. They’re both hard, both breathing a bit too fast now. 

His begged out _Steve_ gets swallowed too. 

A chuckle’s left on Billy’s lips, and Harrington kisses a path to his ear, meets that tiny piece of ocean he left on Billy. ‘Bet they’ll notice two guys rubbing up against each other, though.’ 

Billy shivers when Harrington bites the soft skin behind his ear. It’s enough to shake him out of his trance. 

He pushes Harrington off him. He’s not _baby_. Not in Hawkins. 

Harrington’s still. Smiling. ‘Let’s take you home, okay?’ 

Billy. Nods. _Home_ doesn’t sound like joy here. 

* * *

It takes four wrong turns to sink in. 

‘You’re not taking me to my place.’ 

Harrington settles his palm on the back of Billy’s head. Starts. Petting him. Laughs a soft thing when Billy’s eyes flutter shut. 

‘Close your eyes, heartbreaker. I’ll wake you when we get there.’ 

Billy—Billy closes his eyes. 

* * *

He comes back to a hand climbing up his thigh, and Harrington’s mouth under his jaw, and, ‘Wake up, baby,’ whispered too late. 

Billy. He’s never been more awake. 

He lets Harrington kiss the corner of his mouth, mumbles a groggy _where’r we?_ around the kiss. Gasps a bit when Harrington traces along the inseam of his jeans. 

‘Take a look,’ Harrington pulls away to nod towards the rear windshield. 

When Billy turns around, he’s greeted with the Welcome to HAWKINS sign bathed in yellow light by the only street light in miles. 

That. That means— 

‘We’re outta Hawkins,’ Harrington says from his seat, head tilted to the side. Watching Billy with victory etched on his features. 

_We’re outta Hawkins_ , just like that. Like he’s not tilting Billy’s world to the side. Like it doesn’t mean anything, that Harrington’s been prying him open, and untying his knots, one by one, and unlocking him, bit by bit. 

Harrington smiles at the way Billy’s breathing’s gone too fast again, for all the right reasons this time, and he says, ‘Wanted to make it up to ya,’ and then he. He doesn’t say anything else, or maybe he does, but Billy. Eats it up. Devours anything Harrington was gonna say next, his mouth, his. His breath. 

He doesn’t bother keeping the desperation out of it. He figures there’s no point. Harrington’s got him solved anyway. 

They’re out of Hawkins. Billy can be anything he wants here. He. He can be— 

‘Whatcha lookin’ at?’ 

Billy shakes his head, ‘You’re just—’ He cuts off. He can let the desperation seep through, but the sign is only a steps away, and Billy can’t shake the feeling that something. Something’s still off. 

Still. He can pretend. For a while. 

‘I never woulda thought you could tan, ‘s all,’ he laughs. Hopes it hides everything he’s not saying. 

Harrington. Fuckin’. Smirks. Raises an eyebrow. ‘You like it, huh? Wanna see if it runs all the way down?’ 

Billy lets out a punched out chuckle, ‘Smooth, real smooth.’ Is already unzipping Harrington’s pants. Is already kinda. Drooling at the thought of getting his mouth on him. Finally. 

Finally. 

He gets them open, pops the button open too. Looks up at Harrington like a puppy waiting for the treat. _Good boy_. 

‘Go on,’ Harrington smoothes a hand over Billy’s forehead, brushes a couple stray curls behind his ear. ‘You know what to do.’ 

Billy. Oh, he knows. He’s been biting his fist in the dark, biting moans back into his mouth for months. Dreaming about this. 

He knows what to do. 

He gets him out. He’s already wet with slick and Billy. Swells a bit with pride at that. He did that. Harrington’s wet for him. His mouth. 

It’s awkward, bent in half over the console, but the moan Harrington lets out when Billy closes his mouth around him, like he’s never had his dick sucked before, it’s. 

It’s everything Billy’s been dreaming of. 

He’s never felt more awake. The weight of Harrington on his tongue, the noises he. Can’t keep back, pouring out of his mouth like Billy’s sucking the life out of him, the nails scraping at the back of his scalp, not. Not just keeping him there. Pushing him down, just a bit. 

The shift stick’s digging into his side, and Billy focuses on that. Has to, because Harrington cups his face with his other hand, rubs a line across his bottom lip. Dips. The tip of his thumb in Billy’s mouth, stretched wide on his dick, and when Billy. Meets his eyes. Slides his mouth up until it’s only licking around the head, leaving kitten licks on Harrington’s thumb, too, Harrington. Throws his head back, hand back to pushing Billy as far down as it goes, moans, ‘Baby,’ moans, ‘Your mouth,’ moans, ‘I’m real—’ and Billy. Has to focus on the sharp pain on his flank to keep from coming the moment heat floods his mouth. 

Harrington keeps him there until Billy’s choking, until he’s gasping for breath, until the tears streaming down his cheeks soak into the fabric of Harrington’s jeans. 

Until thinking about the stupid stick shift isn’t helping much anymore, because Billy’s been dreaming this for months, and Harrington. He’s inside him, now, and Billy’s so— 

He’s so— 

He falls back to his seat with a thud when Harrington pushes him, palm splayed in the center of his chest, right. Right above his heart. Billy sucks in a breath, and he’s got a lapful of Harrington on the exhale, hand already slipping into Billy’s jeans to rub at him. 

He breathes out a soft laugh at the groan that spills out of Billy’s mouth the moment his fingers close around him. ‘Shit, heartbreaker. So wet. Jus’ from getting your mouth on me.’ 

Harrington. Still has the blood of another guy smeared on his knuckles. It’s— 

Billy stares at his lips, and Harrington’s already laughing when he slides them back up to his eyes, ‘Yeah, I don’t think so,’ guides Billy’s head in the crook of his neck instead. 

‘How many times have you done this, huh?’ Harrington squeezes his fingers around him, gets him leaking and breathless and right _there_ so soon, way too fucking soon. ‘How many guys did you let in your mouth to get so good for me?’ 

Billy grunts in pain, in agony, in fuckin’ bliss, and Harrington pets his head, lowers his voice to just above a whisper, ‘You did so fuckin’ good for me, baby,’ and Billy. 

He bites his groan on Harrington’s neck. Sinks his teeth in to muffle it. Spills all over Harrington’s fist. It’s violent, and brutal, and. The best thing he’s ever felt. 

There’s a red circle of teeth on Harrington, right above the collarbone. 

When Billy presses his lips to it, Harrington. 

Lets him. 

* * *

He doesn’t fall asleep this time. 

Harrington’s silent next to him for the whole drive, and it’s not. Unusual, not really, but. 

Something’s off. Billy can’t. He can’t figure out what. 

He stops a good two blocks from Neil’s house. Billy’s not. Sure what to. What he’s supposed to do, hand already reaching for the seatbelt, when Harrington. 

Clears his throat. Stops Billy in his tracks. 

He turns the rear-view mirror towards him, plastic squeaking something awful, splitting the deadly silence around them in half. 

He looks. Almost. If Billy turns too fast, forgets who’s in the car with him, Harrington looks. So much like. 

It’s the way he’s fixing his hair, sucking on his teeth, the way. Neil does, licking away traces of food, slicking back his hair in front of the hallway mirror. 

‘What’d ya think of her?’ 

Billy blinks. Sees only Harrington in front of him. ‘Think of who?’ 

‘ _Her_ ,’ Harrington says around a scoff, ‘the princess, what’s-her-name. _Nancy_. I know you saw her buzzing around me.’ His eyes are glinting when he meets Billy’s in the mirror. ‘She looked real impressed at the,’ he twirls his index in the air between them, _the whole thing_ left unsaid. 

The crowd. The punch. The. 

The kiss. 

All in the twirl of a finger. 

Billy can hear the thunder. The storm’s getting close. ‘I don’t really think about her.’ He shrugs. It comes off weak, even to him. ‘Looks like a real prissy bitch to me.’ 

It. Feels different, this time. Harrington never. Asks before— 

‘’m thinkin’ of asking her out,’ he says, and. 

The sky cracks in half. 

Billy counts five things, the ringing in his ears, the street lamp on the corner, flickering and buzzing and crackling, the hum of the engine under his legs. The way the fabric’s scratching at his skin, where Harrington’s fingers were hidden an eternity ago— 

The strangeness of his voice, when he says, ‘Right,’ opens the door, ‘best’a luck with that,’ lets it fall shut with a piercing thud, piercing the fabric of the night, piercing the fabric of reality a bit, too, tearing it to shreds, ‘see you at school.’ 

It sounds. Not his, his voice. 

He can’t even have that. 

He can feel the wax melting. 

It was pointless, he thinks, walking back to his cage. It was pointless, learning not to fly too close to the sun. 

It’s Harrington’s storm that does it. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> visuals for this chapter:
> 
> [billy's earrings](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/c5/fc/b9/c5fcb9d15c1d6a96d4dd8a840e92417e.jpg)  
> [steve's amulet](https://images-na.ssl-images-amazon.com/images/I/61y2Ns-s%2BOL._AC_UL1001_.jpg)  
> listen. this is a v e r y serious fic i promise but. pls imagine billy having steamy phone sex w steve on [this](https://64.media.tumblr.com/a7772799138f7d951347e5b728b22ccc/tumblr_oh64mypdzz1uolidho2_1280.png),, he even looks like aquamarine, people
> 
> anyway here's my [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/) if u wanna like. talk to me or send me stuff or. idk yell at me abt these idiots,, might make me very happy,, might just,,


	8. Chapter 8

School starts two days after Labour Day, which is. Just as good. 

Gives the new shiner Neil paints on him on Monday two whole days to heal. 

It was probably avoidable, if Billy’s honest. He could’ve kept his mouth shut, the same way he’s been doing for years and years and. 

Except he can’t tune out the constant drone of Harrington’s voice, _what d’ya think of her_ , _the princess_ , _I’m thinking of_ — 

So. Yeah, Billy’s feeling real fuckin’ brittle. 

Keeping his mouth shut just. Isn’t on top of his priorities. 

It takes Tommy three whole periods to walk right into Billy coming out of Bio, and. Billy’s surprised, truth be told. Tommy lives and breathes for hot gossip. 

They’re a match made in heaven, Tommy and Carrie. 

‘Hey, _pal_.’ Tommy stops him with a palm on his chest. Both of them know Billy could rip his arm off to the root if he wanted. Tommy doesn’t look even remotely scared of that possibility, and that. Well, it just. Sits wrong with Billy. Tommy raises his eyebrows in the least discreet, most suggestive way possible. ‘You’re not in the mood for Contemporary American History, are ya? Let’s ditch.’ 

Billy. Sighs, eyes rolling skywards for a sliver of support. Well. Eye. The vision on his left one is still a bit blurry. 

Support doesn’t come, to no one’s surprise, so. 

Billy pushes away from Tommy’s sorry excuse for a grip. Starts walking, yells out, ‘C’mon, asshole, you with me or what?’ until he hears Tommy panting to catch up with him. 

All in all, it’s not a bad first day of school. 

Tommy drags them out to the back yard, because Tommy’s a fuckin’ coward who thinks the back yard makes them magically invisible to any teacher passing by. 

They sit on the concrete, backs against brick. Billy counts three breaths before giving in. 

‘Ask what you wanna and get it over with.’ 

Tommy bites at his lip for a long time. ‘Steve’s been. Hangin’ around that Wheeler chick all morning.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘So. What was that? At the party.’ 

Billy snaps his head up fast enough to catch Tommy flinching next to him. That’s better. Flinching’s. Better. ‘That the talk of the town today?’ 

Tommy huffs out something relieved. ‘Nah, man. You think anyone was sober enough to remember? Plus, everyone’s like. Too busy trying to figure what the deal is with Steve and the Stepford wife.’ He lowers his voice to something more serious, then. Secret. ‘Just. I know you. I know Steve. So. What was it?’ 

Billy tries laughing it off, starts muttering _was just a jo-_ except. 

Tommy cuts him off. ‘Don’t. If you’re gonna lie to me, just. Don’t bother answering.’ 

The sky’s still summer blue when Billy turns his head to the side. He chews at the inside of his cheek hard enough to justify the mistiness of his eyes. Hopefully. 

‘Wasn’t even the first time, was it.’ 

Tommy’s not-really-a-question makes Billy turn to glare at him. He doesn’t look. Dangerous, doesn’t look like he’s fixing to let Billy get acquainted with his fists anytime soon, so Billy. 

Shakes his head. 

Tommy lets his head fall back against the wall. Even his throat’s scattered with freckles. It’s. Weird. ‘Man,’ he drawls, ‘Carol’s gonna lose her shit.’ 

‘You can’t tell her.’ Billy finds out he sounds frantic three seconds after the words are out there. He kinda. Doesn’t care. ‘Tommy, man, I mean it, you can’t—it’s not—’ He trails off to catch his breath. Tries again. ‘There’s nothing to tell. Nothing’s going on.’ 

He ignores Tommy’s raised brow. ‘Nothing’s going on,’ he says again. Like that’ll make it real. ‘We. Just. It’s nothing. You can’t tell Carrie.’ 

Tommy scoffs. He sounds. Amused. It’s. It’s weird. ‘Wow, okay, I _just_ said don’t bother lying to me. Fine, roger that, I won’t say a word to my girlfriend of like. Eight years, but.’ He pats Billy’s shoulder twice, reassuringly, and that’s. Weird, too. ‘Just so you know, man, she’s had a bet on when you’d fuck each other’s brains out since like. Week three.’ 

Billy breathes out a shuddery kinda thing. A laugh, almost. He. Wishes Carol was right. 

Wonders if maybe she is, all the same. 

‘Doesn’t matter,’ he mutters, ‘Harrington’s with the princess now.’ 

Tommy’s looking to the left of Billy, says, ‘Is he?’ and Billy has. Three seconds to find that weird, too, before Harrington’s sitting down next to him, arm already slung around Billy’s shoulder, body already plastered on Billy’s back. 

‘Can’t believe you skipped class without me,’ he laughs, and Billy shivers at every word grazing his skin. Harrington presses even closer, rests his chin on the curve of Billy’s shoulder. His breath falls slow and calculated and. Dangerous, brushes Billy’s hair on every exhale. ‘Am I interrupting something important?’ 

‘No.’ Billy returns the look Tommy’s giving him before shrugging Harrington off. Stands up, fixes his eyes at the empty space he left. ‘I’m going back in. Click’s got it in for me anyway.’ 

Harrington lets him take three steps before calling him back. Freezing Billy on the spot. 

It sounds the same, the way Harrington calls his name. The way Neil does. Sounds like danger, and blood, and colors on Billy’s skin. 

He turns to find Harrington scanning him, eyes roaming up-and-down-and-up, all over him. Smiling sweetly at him. ‘Come by, later.’ 

Billy shakes his head. It takes. Everything in him, that one small act of defiance. ‘Can’t. I’m on babysitting duty. Looking after Max, they. It’s date night.’ 

Harrington squares his jaw, tilts his head up. Hums, low and quiet and. Dangerous. 

‘Better get goin’, then,’ he drawls, lips pursed and fingers twitching and embers burning in his eyes. ‘Don’t wanna keep mrs. Click waiting now, do we?’ 

He waves a hand, and. Billy’s dismissed. 

* * *

Neil and Susan are out of the house by eight-thirty. 

Billy’s lying on the floor, doing his ab workout and contemplating the merits of murder-suicide when there’s a knock on his door. 

It’s ten to nine. Max knows better than to stop him mid-exercise. 

‘Still got ten to go, peabrain. Go microwave some leftovers if you’re that hungry.’ 

The door creaks open, and. Harrington walks in, already mid-phrase, ‘That any way to talk to your sister?’ followed by Max mumbling something like _he said he’s expected?_

Billy sits up so fast he almost meets his lunch a second time. 

He blinks at Harrington for a charged moment, which obviously translates as an invitation for Harrington to step closer to him, arm raised to show the VHS he’s gripping, ‘I brought Firestarter,’ smiling all the way. 

Max lets out an excited little gasp, and that. That’s not good. At all. 

Billy isn’t. Sure how to deal with. Any of what’s happening. 

‘Max,’ he rasps, clears his throat to add some. Authority, control. Something. ‘Go heat up some dinner and I’ll be out in a minute. Now.’ 

Max doesn’t move, doesn’t budge an inch. She’s still standing by the door, staring at the tape in Harrington’s hand like it’s the elixir of life, or something. 

Billy knows what’s coming. He can see it from miles away. 

‘Max—’ 

‘Come on.’ She’s got her kicked puppy look on. Billy fuckin’. Hates that look. Almost a decade dealing with it, and he’s still not immune. ‘I’ve never seen it and you know he’d never let me and everyone’s talking about it and how badass it is and.’ She sucks in a breath, and then three more to make up for the three she skipped before. Her eyes flick over to Harrington, scanning him kinda. Warily. ‘You’ll be gone before they come back, right?’ 

Harrington gives her a three-finger salute. ‘Way before. Scout’s honor.’ 

Billy lets out a scoff, and it must come out this side of manic, because Max looks between them for a moment before she turns to him. 

‘See? How’s he ever gonna find out?’ 

Billy just kinda. Deflates. He grabs the towel to wipe the sweat off, Harrington’s eyes scanning every movement, the hawk and. The prey, and Billy mumbles _fine_ into the fabric, holds onto that one last hope that maybe. Max might miss it. 

She. Doesn’t. Does a triumphant jump on the spot instead, which absolutely does not make Billy huff fondly, kinda yells, ‘You guys want butter on your popcorn? What am I saying, of course you want butter,’ already halfway out the room, doing her stupid little dance all along, and it’s. Just. 

Billy has to. He needs to be sure. 

‘Max?’ She looks back at him with the weight of every brick of Neil’s house on her slouched shoulders, on her furrowewd brows. Billy forces his expression to something softer, just to see her. Relax. Brush some of that ingrained alertness off. It’s just a movie. It’s just. Just one night. Neil won’t know. ‘Not a word, okay?’ 

Her eyes flicker between them again before they roll to the ceiling. Her soul’s not in it, and Billy scars ten half-moons in his palms to keep from reaching out, smooth out every line of worry, erase a childhood soaked in. Distrust and caution and always, always expecting the worst, but. 

‘We only have room for one idiot in this house and the position’s already been filled,’ she smirks, and Billy takes it for the win it is. 

She even. Closes the door behind her. 

Billy doesn’t have time to be grateful, because the moment they’re alone Harrington pushes him back against the mat and shoves his tongue in Billy’s mouth. 

Billy lets it go on for the second it takes to remember Harrington. Has a girl. 

He shoves him off, and Harrington lands next to him with a grunt. 

‘What the _fuck_ were you thinking?’ 

Harrington chuckles, arm reaching out to run a straight line from the collarbone to the navel, spread the sweat pooling in the trenches lining Billy’s torso. ‘I’d ask if you kiss your momma with that mouth, but. Nevermind, already know who you kiss.’ 

Billy sits up, fighting goosebumps on every inch of skin Harrington touched. Neil’s not home, but. The house itself feels like it’s closing up on him. Like the walls have eyes and they’re sounding the alarm every time Billy eats up some of the distance between their bodies. 

‘Why’re you here?’ 

Harrington purses his lips, staring at the ceiling like he’s gotta think about it. He shrugs, ‘I was bored,’ not a fucking care in the world. 

He turns to his side, ghosts his fingers across Billy’s flank, chuckles when it gets Billy shivering, and trying to slide away, and crowding in as close as it gets. 

‘Thought you might be bored, too, all alone in this house.’ His fingers meet the waistband of Billy’s shorts, tips already lifting it, dipping under. ‘Big Bad Wolf’s not around tonight, so. Figured I’d come and play.’ 

Billy covers Harrington’s palm with his own, stops him from wandering lower, because Max. Max is making popcorn, with. With butter, and Neil’s not here, but the walls are closing in, and Billy. Can’t— 

Harrington’s arm drops to the floor with a thud when Billy stands up. 

‘I need a shower.’ His voice sounds steady, at least. At least something in him is steady. ‘Go help Max with her popcorn, and put the movie on, and don’t—’ Billy pinches the bridge of his nose to stave off the thunder splitting his head in half. ‘Don’t do anything stupid.’ 

He leaves Harrington alone in his room, still lying on the floor. Still smiling. 

* * *

Max falls asleep ten minutes before Drew Barrymore goes wild on the agents, which is. A fucking shame, really. 

She’d really enjoy that. 

Harrington’s been. Nice. When Billy gets out of the shower, he finds Max slouched on one end of the couch, a bowl of popcorn set between her and the empty seat left for Billy, and Harrington. Lounging on Neil’s armchair, legs stretched on the coffee table in front of him, fighting with Max about. The benefits of mixing M&M’s and popcorn. 

Everything’s so. Normal. Billy doesn’t. Know how to deal with it. 

He knocks Harrington’s legs off the table when he moves to sit heavily on the couch, Max on his left and Harrington on his right, and Billy just. 

He presses play. 

Harrington’s quiet, in a. Commanding sort of way. Makes Billy feel like he should be asking permission to move every time he grabs some popcorn, or laugh along with Max’s stupid comments, or. Steal glances at him, Harrington in Neil’s chair, hawking over Billy eating popcorn and laughing with Max more than watching the movie. 

Their own little National Geographic doc. A hunter observing the prey in its natural habitat. 

He doesn’t put his legs back on the table. 

The credits start rolling. 

‘You should go.’ Billy clears the rasp out of his throat, revels in the way Harrington winces at the words. ‘They’ll be back soon, I have to put her to bed.’ 

Harrington hums. Stands up, bones cracking like snapping twigs when he tilts his neck, stretches his arms. 

Max is a heavy sleeper, Billy knows that. Resents her for it, this blessing under Neil’s roof, except he’s really fuckin’ grateful for it, right now, when Harrington straddles him on. Neil’s couch, in Neil’s living room, one knee on either side of Billy, trapping him in. 

His hands land on Harrington’s hips almost. Instinctively, without thinking. Two magnet poles drawn together, fuckin’. Unavoidably. Inescapably. 

‘’s not just my head if he finds you here.’ 

Harrington huffs out something amused. ‘He likes me more than he likes you, heartbreaker. ‘m probably gonna get away with it.’ 

‘I won’t.’ 

He hums, eyes flicking over to Max. ‘You look out for her, huh.’ 

Billy’s fingers tighten on Harrington when he dives in, presses his lips on the pulse working overdrive on Billy’s throat. ‘She looks after me, too.’ He buries a hand on Harrington’s hair, drags him back up to look at him. To make him _see_. ‘That’s how it works, Steve. Give and take.’ 

They stare at each other for a moment, two breaths in sync, echoing loud, bouncing against the walls of Neil’s house. 

Harrington pushes out of Billy’s grip. 

‘Must’a missed that lesson, huh. Me being an only child and all.’ He shrugs, picking up the empty bowls. Max must’ve given him a tour, because he walks them to the kitchen, and Billy hears the water turning on and off, like Harrington rinses salt and butter, washes. Washes the dishes. 

He walks back in, smoothes the lines on Neil’s chair. Wipes off any trace of him. Like he. Was never really here. 

Billy passes him his jacket, and Harrington slides it on, and then he’s closing in, pressing Billy against the door. He grips his jaw between two fingers, tilts Billy’s head back so they’re on the same eye level. 

‘Guess I only ever learned how to take,’ he breathes, lips ghosting over Billy’s, brushing against them on every word. 

Billy tries to. Lean in, chase the kiss Harrington’s keeping outside his reach, except Harrington laughs, pulling back just before their lips meet. 

‘Yeah,’ he licks at his lips, eyes locked on Billy’s, victorious like Billy just. Proved his point. ‘Thought so.’ 

Billy’s pushed to the side, and Harrington wrenches the door open, and he doesn’t turn to dust the moment he walks out of Neil’s house. 

It’s not fair. Harrington gets to escape. It’s. It’s just not— 

‘You know what you’re doing, right?’ he calls out, because Harrington’s getting away, getting away with everything, ‘You know you’re fucking this up.’ 

Harrington turns around, and the porch light hits the side of his face, and he looks. Sad, almost, for a split second. It’s gone the next. He spreads out his arms, the whole world his, mouth set in a bitter, cruel line. 

‘Nothing to fuck up, heartbreaker.’ 

Billy. Pushes the door shut, and the sound of Harrington’s fancy car melts away in the distance. 

He shakes Max awake. 

Max says, ‘I miss the end?’ and she’s half-awake, maybe not even that, but she still calls Billy an asshole for not waking her up when Billy chuckles and nods. 

He helps her get up, and half-walks, half-carries her to her room, and he says, ‘Not my fault you’re a baby who falls asleep before the sun sets,’ and Max gasps, and slaps him on the arm, except she’s not really awake, so it doesn’t hurt one bit, and then she. 

She gives him a hug, kinda, or maybe she just tightens her arm to keep from falling, except Billy’s already making sure of that, and she mumbles, ‘Thanks, I guess,’ sounding closer to this side of awake, and. 

He goes to bed, and he listens to Neil’s car pulling up, and he doesn’t think of the two bowls drying in the sink, that Billy didn’t need to wash. 

* * *

‘Clear your Friday,’ Tommy whispers two weeks later, sliding next to him behind the bench, lab goggles pushed viciously up his head. He hates Chem with every fiber of his being, that boy. 

Billy huffs despite himself. ‘You plannin’ on taking me out, darlin’? Already told ya, your ass ain’t worth getting every hair on my head pulled out by your wife.’ 

Tommy snorts, flicks a couple purple drops from his Erlenmeyer flask his way. He’s lucky it’s just colored water and not like. Acid, or something. 

‘Boss wants us at his place at eight. Said we’re doing a couples thing, invited the princess and everything.’ 

Billy. His face twists up, he knows it. Tries to fight it, but. The sad look Tommy pins him with means he fails. 

‘What does he want me for then? You said couples.’ 

Tommy shrugs. ‘Don’t shoot the messenger, Hargrove. All he said’s he wants you there.’ 

‘Right.’ He breathes in deep, fingers itching with the need to wrap around a cigarette. Around Harrington’s throat. The glass tube creaks dangerously in his hand. 

He breathes out. 

Tommy’s. Getting ready to pour water into a beaker of sulphuric acid. 

‘Hagan? Ya wanna live through Friday, you might wanna rethink that.’ 

* * *

Harrington’s still changing when Billy walks in the locker room. 

He stalls, waits for everyone else to clear out. He hasn’t. Been alone with Harrington for two weeks. Feels like his skin’s peeling off his bones. His body’s forgetting how to be human. 

He leans against the metal lockers across from him. Crosses his arms to keep from. Reaching out, the way he. Wants to. 

‘Hagan said we’re meeting at your place Friday?’ 

Harrington snaps his head up. Surprised. There’s an annoyed frown around his eyes, and Billy blinks, and. It’s gone. Harrington’s smirking at him. ‘Got somethin’ planned.’ 

‘He said it’s just couples.’ 

‘So?’ 

Billy chews on his cheek. Blood floods his mouth. He swallows it. ‘So, why am I invited?’ 

Harrington’s face lights up. He sits back on the bench, body propped up on his elbows. He tilts his head to the side, eyes scanning Billy up and down. ‘You’re my best pal. ‘s it a crime to want you there?’ 

‘For what?’ 

It’s almost. Predatory, the way Harrington smiles at him, eyes lit up and thighs spread and Billy. Can’t look away. 

‘You know how to have a good time,’ Harrington shrugs, scoffs, ‘and. Man, were you right. She’s a prissy bitch, I swear. I’ve been trying to get her to open her legs for me for weeks and she’s not putting out.’ He leans forward, voice simmering down to something. Secret. Conspiratorial. Two pals talking shit about chicks. ‘I’ve tried everything. Can’t even remember how many times I’ve gone down on her, but. Eh, girls and their virtue, huh?’ 

He hums, when Billy doesn’t grant that with an answer. 

‘So I thought,’ he drawls, ‘maybe if we had a little get-together, y’know, by the pool. Put a couple beers into her, fuck around. Maybe she’d loosen up.’ 

The ache to feel Harrington’s skin under his fingers thrums through Billy, leaves him raw and tilted and exposed, and he. Keeps still, knows he’ll do something dangerous and stupid and way, way out of bounds if he moves. Harrington wipes the distance between them in two strides, and Billy. 

Leans in. Can’t even keep a promise to himself. 

Harrington huffs, licks his lips to trap Billy’s eyes on them, and Billy just. Goes, lets out a breathless whimper when he licks his mouth and swallows down the memory of Harrington on it. 

‘The pool seems to do the job, usually. Gets them all so. Wet,’ Harrington says around a smile. Syrupy-sweet. Deadly. He hooks one finger under Billy’s chin. ‘Ain’t that right, baby?’ 

Anger flashes behind his eyes, molten and white-hot and sudden. 

‘Fuck you.’ It’s been rolling in his mouth for so long, and Billy spits it out, shoves Harrington off him, sends him. Reeling back, hitting metal violently. Billy can almost feel the pain, sinking its claws in Harrington’s features. It’s. It’s so. Satisfying. 

He doesn’t wait for Harrington to catch his breath. 

As he’s walking away, Harrington’s winded voice washes over him. 

‘Eight, heartbreaker. Don’t be late.’ 

He sounds like he’s smiling. 

* * *

He’s not going. 

He’s not going, because a Friday night at home beats an evening with Harrington and his. His girl any day, and then Neil walks in, door slamming behind him, voice already raised and whiskey breath wafting through Billy’s closed door, and they haven’t even. Had dinner yet, so. 

* * *

Carol opens the door with a, ‘Oh, thank fuck you’re here.’ 

Billy lifts an eyebrow as he shrugs off his jacket. ‘Carrie—’ 

‘What? Tommy’s too much of a wimp to be _anything_ but polite to her and I need someone to bitch at.’ 

Every bone on his body feels heavy with. An ache he can’t name. Won’t, and Harrington’s laugh carrying through the house shatters something in him, because Billy. Knows that laugh, has unearthed it out of Harrington’s throat too many times to count, except Billy’s kinda counting anyway, and it doesn’t belong to Billy now, but. 

It punches out a bitter kinda scoff outta him, Carol’s whining. 

‘Thought he said we had to play nice, Carrie.’ 

She rolls her eyes at him, which Billy thinks it’s. A waste of a perfect make-up, but. It’s Hawkins. Everything here goes to waste. 

‘She’s literally the color beige? You can’t seriously expect me to behave.’ She fakes a gasp, palm covering her mouth and all. ‘’Sides, you hypocrite, you hate her too.’ 

‘I really don’t, doll. She hasn’t done anything to—’ 

‘She’s stealing your guy.’ 

‘Not my—’ He cuts himself off before the argument gets too old. Harrington’s not his. Not in any way Billy. Needs him to. ‘Listen,’ he tries again, steadier. ‘she hasn’t done anything wrong. Harrington wants to date the Ice Queen, that’s his thing to deal with. Don’t drag me into any drama.’ 

‘ _Harrington_ is a stupid boy who doesn’t know what’s good for him, but.’ She sighs, almost knocks herself over with the force of it, the absolute drama queen. ‘ _Fine_. I guess I’ll let him figure out she’s whiter than vanilla and you two are meant to be by himself.’ 

‘Good girl.’ Billy gives her a smile, the first genuine he’s worn since Luce. ‘Now. Let’s get blind drunk and make her feel unwelcome.’ 

* * *

Carrie’s right, which. Isn’t surprising. At all. 

Harrington’s bitch is boring. Plain as all fuck, shotgunning beer after beer to prove she’s one of them, except Billy can see right through her, the cracks on her porcelaine façade, and. 

Harrington could see them too, if he’d spare her a look, except. 

Every time Billy looks, he finds him looking back. 

He’s got the perfect girl on his lap, and he’s looking at Billy, not even. Bothering to hide it, just. Smiling at him like they’re in on a secret no one else is. 

Carrie keeps elbowing him, though, so. That’s a miscalculation on Harrington’s part. 

It gets old fast. 

Miss Perfect reaches for her third can, like that’ll snatch Harrington’s eyes away from Billy, and Billy. Can’t take one more second of this. 

He walks through the house, figures he’ll raid Harrington’s fancy liquor cabinet for something stronger than. Fuckin’ beer. He needs. Something stronger. He needs— 

‘Having fun?’ 

Harrington’s leaning against the door frame. Licking his lips dry, like he’s. Thirsty for more. Teal bounces off his sweater and into his eyes, glows something dark in them. He’s. Not smiling. 

‘Not really, no.’ Billy keeps an ocean between them, couches and carpets and coffee tables. He won’t stop if he eats up the distance, he. Knows that much. ‘Are you? ‘Cause that’s the point of this, right? That’s what the game’s about.’ 

Harrington hums, eyes flitting between Billy and the bottles. His fingers. Flex on his side, like he. He’s holding back from. Reaching out. ‘You stayin’ over tonight?’ 

It. Lands like a bag of bricks on him. ‘Are you—’ His chest’s heaving with the effort to. Breathe. Breathe, breathe, breathe. ‘Thought the plan was to take the princess’ virtue tonight.’ 

‘I don’t mind.’ 

It’s the smile that does it. It rips a hole through the dam. 

Billy. Jumps over couches and carpets and coffee tables, crosses the ocean to get to Harrington. Harrington, and his smile, and his eyes that never look away. 

‘What’s my next move? You want me to stop you? Go out there and make a scene?’ He hasn’t been this close to Harrington in weeks. Makes his head dizzy with it, how much he. He wants. He barks out a laugh when Harrington lifts his head, just a bit, throat bare, eyes trapped on Billy’s lips. ‘’m not gonna stop you, Steve. Not gonna stay and watch you fuck her, either. You’re playing against yourself.’ 

It’s warm, Harrington’s palm, when it comes up to cup his face. Billy. His eyes fall shut, throat clenching around nothing. 

Harrington brushes a thumb across his cheekbone. So. So gentle. 

‘Billy?’ He laughs, a soft little thing, taps Billy’s cheek twice to get his eyes on him again. ‘Don’t drink any of that. You’re driving home.’ 

A shrill giggle carries through the house, and Harrington rolls his eyes, still smiling, and follows it outside. 

* * *

Twenty minutes into the new day, his window slides open. 

Billy left an hour ago, the image of Harrington walking the princess to his house by the hand, turning around to smile at Billy, sizzling under his skin, burning behind his eyelids every time he closes his eyes. 

He’s been staring at the crack above the door ever since. 

Harrington slides the window shut behind him, and Billy. Can’t help it. Lets out a scoff, because. It only took an hour. An hour, and Harrington’s here. 

Ran to him. 

He feels the mattress dip next to him. 

‘Left without saying goodbye, baby.’ 

Billy hums. Doesn’t make a move to reach out. Touch. ‘Thought I did.’ The lights of a passing car wash the room in yellow, make everything look bigger for a second. Darker. ‘Did you do it?’ 

Harrington shifts until he’s lying on top of Billy, pushes until Billy opens his legs wide enough for Harrington to slide in. He noses under Billy’s jaw, gulping down mouthfuls of air like the oxygen’s running out. 

‘Neil’s here.’ He fights back a shiver when Harrington sucks a mark above his collarbone, fingers clawing at every inch they can get. He hates how little it takes. Neil’s been punching the weakness out of him for years, and. It only takes Harrington breath in his ear. That’s all he needs. 

‘I know. He’s always here.’ 

When Harrington presses their bodies together, hard against Billy, like he didn’t just have Hawkins’ little miss Perfect in his bed an hour ago, Billy. Sucks in a breath, pulls until Harrington meets his eyes. 

‘What are you doing?’ He means right now, and he means. So much more. 

Harrington knows. He knows. 

He lets out a breathy chuckle, presses a soft kiss on Billy’s mouth. ‘Trying to make it up to you, baby. Stop talking.’ 

He kisses his way down Billy’s body, lips burning a trail everywhere they touch. Billy could almost call it. Gentle, except Harrington’s got a deathly grip on his hips, looking at Billy like he’s livestock and every kiss is a mark. 

It was an order, Billy finds out, _stop talking_ , because the moment Harrington’s mouth wraps around him, Billy whispers out his name, and the next second he’s choking on three fingers, mouth stretched wide to fit them. 

Every breath he takes is a struggle. 

He’s never been this hard in his life. 

Harrington’s never done this before, every roll of his tongue tinted with inexperience, and Billy. Stores that away, in the back of his mind, that golden little fact, that Harrington’s never sucked dick before, that he. He’s never been on his knees for anyone else, except. 

It’s Harrington, and that’s all it takes. 

He sputters around the fingers in his mouth to keep from waking up the neighborhood with the moans Harrington’s dragging out of him, waking up. Neil, and Harrington. Groans, or hums, or. Laughs, around him, and Billy has to pull him away, because that’s. 

That’s not what he needs. Not tonight. 

He’s not doing this alone, too. 

He hauls Harrington up, up, up, until he tastes the bitterness on his lips, until Harrington tangles spit-slick fingers in Billy’s hair, presses their hips together, skin against fabric against skin, makes them both choke on their breaths. 

Walks Billy one step closer to falling apart. 

He’s been giving this to Harrington for so long. Falling apart for him. He’s not doing it alone tonight. 

He pushes until Harrington lands on the mattress, flips them over so Billy’s lying on top of him, covering every inch of him with his body. Every point of contact is crackling and burning and sending out sparks, except Billy’s not willing to take his eyes off Harrington long enough to look down for them. 

The look in Harrington’s eyes, it’s. Billy could almost call it— 

‘That’s my boy,’ he breathes it out, something like wonder in his voice, hand coming up to brush stray curls behind Billy’s ear, so. So soft. ‘Show me some of that fire, huh?’ 

Billy. Winces. Bares his teeth. No bark comes out. ‘I’m not playing.’ 

‘I know.’ 

Harrington angles his hips up to grind them together, punches a hiss out of them. It sounds. Amplified, in the silence of the room, the house, the whole town. No one else but them, that’s all there is. 

‘Did you come? With her?’ Harrington wants fire, he can have some of the fire Billy’s been burning with for so long. ‘She even get you hard? Or did you have to think about me to fuck her?’ 

He trails a hand between them to slide Harrington’s jeans open. Get him out. Billy. Needs to feel him against him. Needs him here. With him. 

It earns him a choked out breath, Harrington grabbing his arms to get Billy to keep going, every movement desperate and fast and not even close like he got what he wanted before. Before he came running here. 

‘Billy. Baby, she’s my girlfriend—’ 

He shut him up by crashing their mouths together. Swallows down all the words out of Harrington’s lips. ‘’s not a game,’ he growls, bites, begs, needs to make him—‘Do you get that? This isn’t a stupid game, Steve, I’m—’ 

‘Say it again.’ Harrington wraps his palm around them, hips rolling like he’s. Like they’re—‘My name. Fuck, baby, say it again, nobody. No one says it like you do.’ 

‘Not even her?’ 

Harrington stops. Stops writhing underneath him. Buries his fingers in Billy’s hair, nails scraping scalp. He looks feral, like this, laying on his back, teeth bared and shining in the dark, sweat making his skin glint under the moonlight. Makes Billy’s hair stand on end, makes him stay still so the hunter won’t spot him. 

‘No one.’ 

They can’t. Stop after that, panting into each other’s mouth, moving together, faster, and faster, until Billy shatters into a million tiny pieces, not one of them his, every part of him belonging to Harrington. Comes with his name on his lips, recites it three times, like a prayer, like a poem, like the last word in the whole world, and Harrington. 

Falls apart. 

He doesn’t bother cleaning them up. He’ll need to change the sheets anyway, probably. Burn them for good measure. If Neil catches a whiff of sex on them. 

Billy’s got half the mind to take Neil’s gun and shoot himself before Neil gets to do it for him. 

He falls heavy on the bed. Half on the mattress, half on Harrington. 

He’ll shove him off, any minute now, Billy figures, bitch about his clothes, climb out the window like he was never really here, except. 

An arm slithers its way around his waist, and the next thing Billy knows he’s. Being rearranged, until Harrington’s got them facing each other on their sides, legs and arms tangled. 

Billy wants to. Ask, if he’ll stay, tell him about Neil, what time he wakes up, except. 

Harrington curls his palm against Billy’s cheek, thumb tracing slow circles, tilts his face to press their lips together. 

Billy doesn’t feel like asking anything anymore. 

‘One of these days,’ Harrington whispers, pushing until Billy’s resting his head in the crook of his neck, fingers walking a trail down Billy’s spine until they meet the waistband, creep underneath, just enough to make Billy tremble, suck in a breath, get him thinking about—‘I’ll open you up, get you ready for me, and when I’m finally inside you. Baby, you’ll forget any other words exist. I want you saying my name, that way you do. The way you only know how.’ 

Billy claws at Harrington’s chest, sinks his nails deep to see if it’ll melt away. This. All of it. Sleep is settling heavy on his eyelids, but he. He wants. Everything he has, everything he is, he wants to— 

‘You don’t deserve it,’ he whispers. 

Harrington chuckles, sounds as close to falling asleep as Billy feels. ‘No,’ he says, arm tightening around Billy, ‘you’ll give it to me anyway.’ 

* * *

The mattress is still warm when Billy wakes up. 

He’s not cold, and when he opens his eyes, the sheets are covering him, like Harrington— 

Light is pouring through the open curtain, bright and clear and blinding, and Billy turns to his side, fingers dancing on the empty space next to him, still. Warm, like Harrington left a second before Billy blinked his eyes open, and he thinks of Nancy Wheeler, and how Harrington spent his first night with her in Billy’s bed. 

* * *

A few days into October, Billy’s called into the school counselor’s office. 

He’s already sick of his second autumn in this godforsaken town. Everything is orange and yellow and brown, and everything is dying, and. 

Harrington hasn’t touched him since that night. 

The school’s been buzzing with rumours about the hottest new Hawkins couple, parading around the halls wrapped around each other, sucking each other’s face against every imaginable surface, Harrington kissing his girl but always. Always making sure Billy’s watching. 

Billy’s. Always watching anyway. 

Feels like autumn’s settling on his bones, too. 

His joints feel rusty, creaking in all the wrong ways like being away from water’s got him drying up, cracks splitting up, leaving him raw and brittle, opening wider and wider with every passing day. One more day away from his ocean. 

One more day without Harrington’s hands on him. 

He doesn’t get it. Thinks back to last week, looks for anything that’s sticking out, enough to land him in trouble. 

He’s been. Jumpy. On edge, cold frosting his hands, his mind, his. Judgement, but. He’s been careful. Only mouths off when he knows he’s getting away with it. Pushes that much harder in practice, but. Coach’s beaming at him at the end, so. Can’t be that. 

Even the split lip Neil gave him a week ago hasn’t opened up in days. 

He falls heavy on the chair. ‘What’d I do?’ 

She huffs into a manila folder containing. His file, Billy guesses. She’s pretty, he thinks, in a. Detached kinda way. Like she’s not. Trying to be. She’s a professional kinda pretty. Probably makes more money than Neil. 

Makes Billy instantly take a liking at her. 

Neil would loathe it, if he knew that people. Of her kind are holding Billy’s future in their hands. 

‘You did absolutely nothing wrong, mr. Har—’ She cuts herself off, frowns a bit at him. ‘Can I call you Billy? Mr. Hargrove sounds. So official. Stern,’ she says, and. 

Yeah, Billy likes her. 

He nods. ‘So. Why am I here?’ 

‘I wanted to discuss your future.’ 

‘So I’m. Getting expelled.’ 

She laughs, again, eyes crinkling at the corners, filled with a warmth rarely directed at him. It’s. It makes him feel. Uneasy, in a. Pleasant kinda way. 

‘No,’ she says, ‘quite the opposite, actually. You’re a star student, Billy, one of the best our school has to offer, and you’re just starting your last year in high school. I wanted to broach the subject of life after school, your plans about the future. College, if that’s something you’re considering.’ 

Getting told off would be. Vastly more preferable. Thinking about life after. School, after Hawkins. Makes his skin crawl, with anticipation, with hope, with. 

Makes him think of home, of rides in a rolling furnace with Luce by his side. 

Makes him think of Harrington. 

Billy’s not so sure home only means Cali, not anymore. 

‘I haven’t.’ He clears the raspiness out of his throat. Tries again. ‘Haven’t given it much thought, actually. What I wanna do.’ 

‘That’s perfectly fine. To be expected, really. It’s daunting, isn’t it? The future.’ She chuckles, nails tapping rhythmically on the yellow paper. ‘You still have many months before you have to settle on what you’d like to do. I just wanted to. Remind you of your options, mostly.’ She offers him a HobNob from an open packet on her desk. 

Billy shakes his head. Chews on his lip before. ‘You think I got a chance? Getting in college?’ 

‘Oh, absolutely. I’m not trying to raise your hopes, here. Your grades are exceptional, and excelling in sports is a verified magnet.’ She raises an eyebrow, ‘And your record is unblemished, as of yet.’ 

It sparks a laugh out of Billy, head bowed to raise his chances at hiding it. From the way she’s smiling at herself, he’s failing spectacularly. 

He finds he. Doesn’t mind. He likes her, he’s decided. She’s one of the good ones. 

‘Besides,’ she goes on, ‘California—I’m guessing that’s where you’re thinking? Some place close to home? Anyway, California colleges are set on inclusivity, offering spots to people from every state, and that raises your chances significantly. In this school, grades and presence like yours stand out like a beacon. It’ll attract their interest, I assure you. And,’ she lowers her voice, leans forward in a conspiratorial kinda way, makes Billy huff, makes his chest clench with how. Maternal she looks, ‘you can always play up the emotional angle. Getting uprooted, wanting desperately to come back home. They’re suckers for tearjerkers like that.’ 

It’s dangerous, the thing that flutters in his throat, flies up and down and up inside his ribcage. Feels a lot like hope. 

Dangerous, when he’s gotta be under Neil’s roof, sitting at his table in less than an hour. 

Makes him think of a life. Away from here. Away from Neil, and Hawkins, and. 

‘Like I said, you got plenty of time to decide.’ She drags him out of his thoughts, voice gentle and tentative like she’s recognising the landmine in front of her. Makes Billy feel. Safe. ‘Deadlines usually close around January, so. Take your time. Consider your options. And I’m right here if you wanna. Talk it out. Sometimes you need to get it out of your head to see if it makes any sense.’ 

‘Yeah,’ he rasps, and he sounds miles closer to choked up than he’s comfortable with. ‘I’ll think about it.’ 

He turns back, when he’s at the door. ‘Thank you,’ he says, and he finds he’s never meant anything more. 

* * *

Max is leaning on his baby when he walks outside, arms crossed and hair matching the color of the leaves flying around her and a murderous look simmering in her eyes. 

‘I’ve been waiting for like. Thirty-five minutes,’ she whines, ‘in like. Freezing weather. I’m seconds away from a frostbite.’ 

Billy rolls his eyes, unlocks the car to let them in. It’s not even close to cold, but he turns the heat up anyway. For his car’s sake. Nothing else. ‘Got held up.’ 

She rolls her eyes back at him, huffing and rubbing her hands like she landed the titular role on the Little Match Girl. What is it with redheads and getting off on being dramatic, Billy’ll never find out. 

‘Yeah, I got that, thanks for nothing.’ She doesn’t ask, thankfully, because Billy. Wants to keep it to himself, that hope fluttering inside him, at least until he decides, but. ‘Your friend offered to drive me home.’ 

His head snaps up so fast his neck cracks. ‘Friend?’ 

‘Firestarter guy. He looked real worried, when I told him you hadn’t left school yet. Asked if I wanted a ride and all.’ She squints at him, like she’s calibrating how far she can take this. Real far, turns out. ‘He’s kinda an asshole, isn’t he. Don’t get why you like him so much.’ 

‘I don’t.’ 

‘He’s. Your friend?’ She shakes her head, seatbelt clicking when she slides it on. ‘You know what? I don’t care. Just take me home. I can feel starvation setting in, I’m telling you. I’m _dying_.’ 

Billy laughs. Starts the car. He watches the leaves fly by, and he doesn’t think of leaving people behind. 

* * *

He’s everywhere. 

It’s not like they can. Keep away, not in a cage like Hawkins, but. 

It’s almost deliberate, the way Harrington hunts him down, always keeps him in his field of vision, never. Never gives them a moment alone. 

A constant reminder. _You can’t always get what_ — 

Bowie’s blasting through the speakers, _you want more and you want it fast_ , and everyone’s smashed. 

Billy’s. Stone cold sober. He beat Harrington’s record a couple hours ago, pushed through the crowd the moment Harrington’s feet were touching ground again, all for that one second of ecstasy, licking up Harrington’s leftover spit. 

The buzz’s worn off since. 

It’s Halloween. It’s been. Too long. 

For every drink pushed his way Billy denied, Harrington’s been guzzling down two. The party’s been steadily dying down for the last hour, teenagers pouring out of the place, drunk out of their minds, and Harrington’s lounging on the couch, one arm around his drunk girlfriend, so far from sober he doesn’t bother hiding the flush painting his cheeks tomato under the yellow lights, or the softness laced around the smile on his face, like he’s staring at the love of his life, or something, except he hasn’t looked away from Billy all night, and that’s. 

Billy’s too sober to deal with that. 

He finds Tommy and Carol hidden in an armchair two bedrooms down, seconds away from merging into each other. Billy has to actually. Use force to separate them. 

He scoffs a laugh when Tommy whines at him. ‘’m heading out,’ thumb pointing at the general direction of the exit. ‘You get her home safe, you hear?’ 

Tommy. Pushes Carol off him, imminent disaster avoided by Billy’s arm coming to wrap around her, stop her from landing on her ass. Billy would not. Like to see the outcome of that. 

‘Tommy, what the fuck—’ 

‘Yeah, no,’ Tommy’s already striding back into the living room, ‘you’re not leaving me to deal with him alone.’ He nods at the couch, Harrington frowning at the empty space Billy was standing in a minute ago. It takes him a moment, but he lights up again when he manages to focus on Billy. 

Billy’s. Way too sober for any of this. 

‘He drove her here,’ Tommy grumbles, arm spreading out for Carol. She goes, the traitor, betrays Billy for the guy who almost dropped her. ‘He’s not exactly in a state to drive her back, and we. We got _plans_ , man. Can’t play chauffeur for them tonight.’ 

‘I have to be home. Really soon, Hagan. I don’t even know where she lives, I can’t—’ 

‘I can drive her home.’ 

Billy turns around to find two mousy eyes, uncomfortably familiar, looking at him eagerly. Byers has been buzzing around Harrington and his girl all night. Well. Mostly the girl. Harrington’s been ignoring him, or maybe. People like Byers don’t even register on his radar. Not as a threat, at least. 

‘You know her place?’ He squints at Byers, a bitter kinda suspicion coating his mouth, because Byers has no reason knowing where Wheeler lives, but. It’s a relief, really. Billy just. He can’t drive Harrington and his girl home, he just. Can’t do that. That’s too much. 

When Byers nods, over-eager and shady as all fuck, Billy shrugs, ‘Fine. You want her, ya got her. She’s all yours.’ 

Harrington never. Takes his eyes off him. Not when Byers makes the walk back to them, beaming and victorious, not when Wheeler slides away and leaves with another guy without sparing him a glance. 

He stands up, after she’s gone, like she’s been holding him down all this time, marches up to Billy, unsteady, fuckin’. Dripping confidence. 

He looks at Billy under his lashes. Hooks a finger around Billy’s thumb. No one’s around to see, no one except Billy’s two idiot friends sucking each other’s mouth off against the fireplace. Some plans. 

Harrington tugs at that one point of contact, like he needs to try to get Billy looking at him. ‘Take me home?’ 

Billy. Nods. Swallows down on nothing. Nods, again. ‘Yeah,’ he rasps, breathless and sleepy and so, so gone. ‘Whatever you want.’ 

* * *

‘Why don’t you like her?’ 

Billy pauses at the laces of Harrington’s left Cortez. He’s sprawled on his back, leaning on his elbows, watching Billy with an almost. Scientific curiosity, like he’s never seen someone unlacing shoes before. 

Billy tugs at it until it’s loose, sets it next to its pair. His cheeks feel swollen, hours and hours of biting and chewing and swallowing down words. Swallowing down the need. 

He shrugs. Presses the flat of his palm on Harrington’s chest until he _goes_ , falls back with a huff. ‘She’s not good enough for you.’ 

‘And you are?’ 

When Billy looks at him, Harrington’s on his side, watching him put his shoes on the rack, fold Harrington’s clothes on his desk chair. He’s got that. Same smile on his lips, almost. Almost too soft, almost too— 

‘You’re drunk.’ He passes a hand on Harrington’s forehead, brushes the hair away. Lingers, when Harrington’s eyes flicker shut and open and shut again, like he’s clawing desperately at consciousness. 

‘Yeah,’ he hums, ‘and you’re real pretty. Gonna lie down or do I gotta beg?’ 

Billy goes as far as _should head_ — and then fingers wrap around his wrist, tugging him down, and Harrington murmurs _c’mere_ , so. 

He lets his eyes close when a hand cups his cheek, thumb brushing circles under his lashes. It sits like acid on his tongue, that question. Wants it out before it burns a hole all the way down his teeth. ‘You want me to? Like her?’ 

It’s silent, for a while, and Billy blinks his eyes open to catch Harrington frowning at him. 

‘Steve?’ It falls like a shot through the night, that name on his lips. Wakes Harrington up, eyes wide and alert. Locking on him. ‘Do you even. Like her?’ 

Harrington scoffs. Slides closer, until he’s nuzzling under Billy’s jaw, lips wet on his neck, until his arm wraps tight around Billy, caging him in. ‘Stay, tonight. Don’t go, okay?’ 

Billy wants. Wants to hold tight. Never let go. Sits heavy in his throat, the need to. Stay. 

‘Can’t,’ he rasps, every word dragging against the walls of his throat, violently, brutally, ‘I’m dead if he wakes up and I’m not there.’ 

‘I’ll wake you up on time. Stay.’ 

It’s so easy, giving in. Harrington’s warm in his arms, warm and heavy and. Comforting, and the last thing Billy feels before sleep drags him underwater is a kiss right above his heart, and words whispered on his skin. 

‘Like you more.’ 

* * *

He’s warm until he’s not. 

Something taps at his cheek until he opens his eyes. 

Harrington’s the first thing he sees. It’s not light yet, not really, can’t make out details, but. He’d know Harrington anywhere. 

It’s not. The worst way to wake up. Billy’s speaking from experience. 

He grumbles, turns away from the window, except Harrington huffs, says, ‘Gotta wake up, heartbreaker, time to go,’ and. 

It hits him like a flood. 

He’s not where he’s supposed to be. 

‘Fuck.’ He sits up, rubs sleep away. ‘Time’s it?’ 

‘Early enough.’ Harrington’s bouncing on one leg, tying up the lace Billy undid a few hours ago. Five? Billy wants to say five. ‘C’mon, let’s move it. Gotta drive me to my car first.’ 

* * *

Billy turns off the engine. None of them moves. When he chances a sideways glance at Harrington, he’s transfixed on his car, a couple blocks down Tina’s place. 

Last night seems. So far away. 

Everything looks different, bathed in the grey and light blue of the dawn clawing its way up the sky. 

Harrington. Looks different. Not soft anymore. The smile’s gone. 

‘Listen,’ he starts, and Billy almost doesn’t need to hear it. Faces away from Harrington, like maybe if he’s not looking at him. Maybe he won’t—‘Forget about this, okay?’ 

Billy swallows down on nothing. 

He doesn’t. Can’t answer, and a beat goes by, and a hand comes up to grip his chin, tilt it back towards Harrington. 

A thumb traces over his lips, like that’ll make up for Harrington being so far away, and Billy clenches his jaw, grits his teeth, mutes the voice screaming in his head. 

It’s not enough, he knows, and Harrington knows it too, drags Billy by the back of his neck until they’re breathing the same air. Back and forth, until their foreheads are pressed together, until Billy can peel away all the layers and find some of that soft smile, far back enough in Harrington’s eyes Billy almost thinks he’s making it all up, like. 

Like any of that will make it enough. 

‘Just,’ Harrington breathes against his lips, ‘just drive safe, okay?’ 

It’s not enough. 

Harrington leaves, and. It’s not enough. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hi i just wanted to say how much i appreciate every single comment and ask and kind word sent my way? so. yk. have some angst as a thank u, or something  
> also here's my [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/) if you wanna. scream at me. maybe


	9. Chapter 9

‘I like the ocean.’ 

It echoes in the small room, the words, and the door banging behind him, and. 

He’s been rolling them on his tongue for days. 

Every morning, walking out of his room, his room with. The lock on the door. Sitting at the breakfast table, burning. Burning holes in Neil’s newspaper fortress. _I like the ocean_. 

Driving through Hawkins with Max by his side. Trees and empty roads and fields, and no water in sight. _I like the ocean_. 

Haunting the halls of Hawkins High, crowds parting around him, around the blood boiling in his veins and the wild look behind his eyes. Around the hopelessness crashing into him. Around the hope slithering its way in. _I like the ocean_. 

He’s been rolling them on his tongue. _I like the ocean_. Tastes like. Like _I wanna get out_. Like _forget about this_. 

Like _I’m leaving. I’m leaving. I’m leaving you_. 

She looks up from her papers. The name plaque on her desk reads _Elysia S. Howells_. He hadn’t noticed it, last time. 

‘How about you take a seat?’ 

He falls down the chair, air punched out of him on a laugh. She raises a brow at him. He shrugs. ‘I didn’t. Know your name. Just. I just realized it.’ 

She hums. Her face. Softens. She extends a hand. ‘You can call me Ely.’ 

He accepts the offer. It’s kind. He. Can’t afford not to. ‘Think I will.’ 

‘Good,’ she says, and then she offers him a biscuit. Like last time. He takes it. Unlike last time. Kind offers. Small. Small things. ‘Now, tell me.’ 

He takes a breath. He’s been watering them in his mouth for days. They’re in full bloom. ‘I like the ocean,’ he says, and they don’t wither when they’re out there. They’re still rooted in him. ‘I mean. I want to do something. Connected to that. The ocean. And you’re right. I—’ 

His fingers tighten around the stupid biscuit, and he grabs a tissue, rests it on her desk before he gets crumbs all over her office. Crumbs are. Traces. Left behind. 

He presses his tongue at the back of his teeth. Stops at the incisors. Sharp and strong and ready. For the kill. 

‘I wanna go back home. Get out. Get. Out of here.’ 

She tilts her head. Looks at him for a second. Says, ‘Good.’ Again. Just. _Good_. 

Air floods his lungs so fast he thinks he’ll drown on it. He doesn’t. He just. Breathes. 

‘So. What now. How do I. Do that.’ 

There’s a stack of papers on her desk, and she looks through them for a moment. ‘Now,’ she says, hands him the piece of paper she just drew out of the pile, ‘you take a look at that form, and you go home and compose your letter, and you bring it to me to make sure you checked all the boxes, and. We get you out of here.’ 

* * *

He doesn’t even get to light the smoke between his lips. 

‘What are you doing?’ 

Billy cranes his neck, locks the sky in his eyes before lowering them to Harrington. 

He doesn’t flinch. 

His back meets solid brick, and his eyes meet Harrington’s, and he. He doesn’t flinch. 

It’s the hope in him, he thinks. He doesn’t do that anymore. He doesn’t—he doesn’t flinch. 

‘You’ve been staying behind,’ Harrington says, and it’s been two weeks, and it’s. The first time since _forget about this_. Billy’s been good. Playing by Harrington’s rules. And his back’s still against a wall. An inevitability. ‘What are you up to?’ 

He hooks two fingers inside Harrington’s pocket. Drags him forward, and Harrington takes three steps, _forget, about, this_ , stops. Right in front of him. 

Billy shrugs, and he says, ‘Homework,’ and. ‘It’s quieter here. Safer.’ 

Makes him smile, the way Harrington tenses. Like an electric current runs through him. He doesn’t like being reminded. About Neil. Billy, going home to him every night. 

About. Someone else’s hands on Billy. 

Except. Harrington’s arms are glued to his sides, fingers flexing and unflexing like he’s. Trying to play by his own rules. 

That’s new. 

Billy’s fingers dragging him closer. It’s new. Harrington tilting his head, and smiling, none of it. Stinging like poison. That’s new. 

It’s almost like. Harrington can’t put him in a cage anymore, not when. He’s locked inside, too. 

He says, ‘Got a study date with Nance later. Wanna join?’ He sounds so. Earnest. He _looks_ earnest. Like that’s not breaking the rules. Doesn’t count, if his girl’s nose-deep in Algebra. 

He’s got it wrong. 

Harrington only made room for two, and. Billy’s the spare. He made sure of that, too. 

He cups his palms around Harrington’s shoulders. Scrapes a hiss out of him when his nails sink in. Billy pulls, and Harrington. Crashes into him, falls like he’s tired of fighting. 

Like he knows Billy’s there to catch him. 

‘I really don’t wanna fuckin’ do that.’ Billy bites until Harrington lets him in, until he can leave every word on his tongue, to swallow down like nails coated in venom. 

Harrington lets him in, and he licks all of it up, everything Billy gives him, the bitterness and the poison and the— 

He lets him in, and he chases all of it, every single kiss, and. 

He still doesn’t touch him. 

Billy needs—he just. He needs— 

He doesn’t let go. ‘You’ll be late,’ he says, catches Harrington’s bottom lip between his teeth, digs his nails in deeper. He doesn’t let go. 

It’s November, so it makes. It makes sense. That the sky goes dark. That Harrington’s eyes go dark, too. 

‘You out for blood tonight?’ He smiles at him, only. A shadow of something kind, and he finally. Touches Billy. Covers his palms with his own. Unlatches his fingers, one by one. His thumbs are still tracing paths on the back of Billy’s hands, even after he lowers their arms. Slowly. Gently. 

Then he smiles, and it’s. It’s not gentle. It’s not safe. 

He says, ‘You’re lying, baby,’ raises his head so he has to look. Down. Closes his teeth around his lip, where Billy’s were just. A moment ago. Before darkness set in. ‘Doesn’t matter. I’ll find out.’ 

It’s November, so. 

It makes sense. That the darkness swallows them whole, and Billy can only make out shadows. 

* * *

He bleeds the first line on the paper the moment he gets home. 

_I like the ocean_. _I’m leaving_. 

It’s a good start. 

* * *

He slams into her as he’s turning around a corner. A collision. 

She scrunches up her nose, like she’s offended by his entire existence, and says, ‘Oh. Sorry.’ Raises one brow. Waiting for him to say it back. 

He doesn’t. 

He rolls his eyes, and starts moving around her, when she. She stops him with her body. And her raised brow. And her books, clasped tightly to her chest like she wouldn’t put it past him to knock them to the floor. 

He wouldn’t. He wants to. He wouldn’t. 

He sighs. ‘What is it, Wheeler?’ 

She. Sighs back. ‘You know where he is?’ 

‘Where who is?’ He leans against a locker, squints at her like there’s any chance they’re talking about anyone else. Like there’s any chance anyone is ever talking about anyone else. 

She twists her face like his words are lemon juice shoved down her pretty little throat. ‘I enjoy this about as much as you do. Possibly even less. So. Where is he?’ 

It’s ironic. It really is. Five minutes ago, Billy was tongue-depressing her boy’s tongue with his own, shoved deep enough to lick his tonsils. 

Five minutes ago, Harrington’s vocabulary was limited to exactly three words, one of them a name, none of them her’s. 

Five minutes ago, Harrington was breaking all his stupid rules. 

It’s been three weeks, and Harrington crosses _forget about this_ out of his mind for twenty minutes every day. Tunes it out long enough to lock them both in closets, and empty classrooms, and the gym’s locker rooms, on two occasions. Long enough to push Billy against walls and remember Billy’s always there to catch him when he falls. 

Long enough to forget all the words, all of them, except three, one of them a name, none of them the one he’s meant to remember. 

He remembers all of it the moment Billy’s tongue isn’t licking all the spit off his mouth. Billy always, always leaves him with _we should do this again sometime_ , and a wink, like he hasn’t been getting acquainted with every dark corner of this school for days, and Harrington never. Ever answers, because this round’s already over by then. 

He’s already hit play, and the tape goes on. _Forget about this_. 

It’s ironic, but. 

Technically. He doesn’t know. Billy has no idea where Harrington runs to every time he leaves. Maybe he even. Stays. Sticks around, long as he can, every time. In every dark room, that always smells like _them_ after they’re done. 

That. Billy doesn’t know what to do with that thought. 

He makes sure it’s pushed back and doesn’t emerge, because the letter keeps getting bigger, and that thought will. Drain all the ink away. 

He needs to keep writing. 

He shrugs. ‘Sorry, Wheeler. Can’t help ya,’ and he pushes harder this time, really. Really needs to get away from. This, but. 

‘How does it feel like?’ There’s curiosity in her tone, but the. The look she’s giving him is pure steel. Calculating, like she already knows the answer. Like Billy knows it, too. The web around him is a lie, and she’s spinning more to catch him in it. ‘I was wondering. What it must feel like, having his eyes on you like that. He never looks at me that way.’ 

Billy almost—almost denies it. Thinks, _nothing’s ever made me feel more alive_. Thinks, _I think he wants to kill me_. Thinks, _doesn’t matter, long as he keeps looking at me that way_. 

He almost. Tells her. 

He swallows all the words down, instead. Pushes past her, finally, and he’s not proving her right, not really, but. 

‘Might wanna try the Bio lab. Think he went that way.’ 

* * *

‘You uh. You’ve been silent for ten minutes.’ 

He’s been sitting in front of her so far, motionless and silent and. Good. But Ely’s. Taking her time, and Billy doesn’t need the vines of panic that grip his insides and squeeze. 

It’s just. 

She’s holding his only way out in her hands. 

She looks up. Billy keeps. Forgetting how warm her smile is. How it makes him. Hope. 

‘This,’ she says, sliding the letter back to his side of the desk, ‘this is really good, Billy.’ 

His whole body shakes with the breath he lets out. He nods. ‘Good enough to get me outta here?’ 

‘Good enough to grab their attention. Everything else, your grades and your achievements in sports and your. Your mind, is what gets you out. But this?’ She taps a nail on the paper, right on top of his name. ‘This’ll get you noticed. It’ll get them to remember you, and we want that, Billy. We want them to remember you, and choose you.’ 

‘And get me out,’ he says, words flying out like birds he kept caged for too long. 

She smiles. Warms the whole world with it. Billy’s world. ‘And get you out. Now all you gotta do is post it.’ 

* * *

The door creaks open quietly. ‘You busy?’ 

He tucks the letter between two Chem pages. Not—not yet. He’s not ready yet. ‘Whatcha need, peabrain?’ 

Max flops down on his bed, bounces a couple times for. Retaliation. ‘We both know I got the brains in this family.’ 

It’s instinctual, the _not a family_. Rises to the surface unbidden, almost stings enough to let it out of his mouth. ‘Whaddya need my help for, then,’ he says instead, and it gets him back a huff, but. Around a smile, so. 

She sits up. Goes all. Solemn and serious. ‘Got a Physics test tomorrow. Wanna make sure I get all these stupid laws right.’ 

‘You got something against Newton, kid?’ 

‘Physics is _boring_.’ 

He sits next to her, ruffles her hair instead of. Hugging her, or. Anything like that. Like what. Families do. ‘Physics is what makes this world go round, Max.’ 

‘And we love this world, right? It’s a _great_ world.’ The anger in her eyes, it’s. It’s not for Billy. It’s almost a decade under Neil’s roof, and ice cream walks to drown out the screaming, and frozen peas on bruised skin. It’s. Not supposed to be there. Billy wants to crumble it with his hands, mold it back into innocence. A house without blood, and raised voices, and. Fear. 

His throat clicks, bitterness oozing down to get dissolved into his bloodstream. 

‘Alright,’ he says, ‘third law of motion. Go,’ and when Max presses play on the tape, recites _for every action there is an equal and opposite reaction_ by heart, stares right at him, with all her anger and all her fear and all her guilt like smoking guns in her eyes, Billy. 

He knows none of it is for him. 

He won’t have to swallow down bitterness for much longer. 

* * *

Almost an hour later, there’s no warning knock. 

Neil shoves his door open, loudly, and Billy has half a second to pretend he doesn’t startle so violently he almost falls off the bed before Billy’s very own one-man-army marches on. Invades Billy’s room, ‘Have you seen your si—’ 

He stops on his tracks to take in the sight before him. His eyes go wide. If they were on tv, the scene would fade away on a laugh track. 

No one’s laughing here. 

‘You had me worried.’ Neil’s saying it to Max, but. His eyes have gone back to two razor-sharp slits, chopping Billy in pieces. 

Turns out, Max knows her Newton, and she knows her diversion tactics, too, because she answers fast, ‘Sorry,’ one magic word spoken loudly to draw Neil’s attention back on her. Just one word, and Billy’s not staring down the barrel of Neil’s gun. 

‘Got a test on Newton tomorrow,’ she says after she’s made sure Neil’s eyes. His attention. Is on her. ‘Billy’s helping me,’ and then she adds, ‘I asked him to,’ because. Max knows to cover every front, too. 

Neil hums a low, rumbling sound that bounces off the walls, sticks to every piece of Billy in this room. ‘Good. Your brother’s smart. Straight A’s all around. It’s good you’re listening to him. Isn’t that right, Billy?’ 

He nods, sends him a ‘Yes, sir,’ fast as he can. It’s the family game. Neil throws grenades. Billy catches them, or he doesn’t. Diffuses them, or. 

‘If you’re just about done, the 49ers are on. Come sit with me.’ 

He does that, sometimes. Neil gets. Fatherly. He’s never asking, not. Not ever, but. 

Sometimes he gets like that, and it’s. It’s unfair. Makes the rest of it worse. Gives Billy a yardstick. How it could be. If this. If they were a family. 

‘We’ll be out in a minute.’ He’s treading carefully on the minefield. Maybe. Maybe he can survive tonight, too. 

Max turns to him when the Neil-shaped shadow’s not looming over them anymore. She doesn’t look so angry now. More. Scared. 

‘Opposite reaction?’ 

It lands like a punch on his lungs, her quiet voice, beats the breath he’d been holding all this time out of him. 

He says, ‘You’re too smart for your own good, kid,’ and he thinks of his Chem textbook, and his ticket out of here, kept safe, hidden between pages 42 and 43. 

* * *

He slides it in his car, stashes it away in the glove compartment. 

Hidden. Safe. Not. Not sent. Not yet. 

* * *

It’s funny. 

They’ve been doing such a good job of it, being each other’s secret. Billy knows every dark corner and every empty classroom by smell and touch alone, because Billy doesn’t have a key to the dark room, not like Byers, but. 

It’s not Billy that gets caught. 

Byers must be real dumb, Billy thinks, because he has a key to the dark room, and Billy wouldn’t ever have found them if he’d used it, like any self-respecting person with secrets would. 

He doesn’t say that out loud. 

He doesn’t say _I knew it_ , either, even though. He did. He didn’t. Know, but. He did. 

He lets out a deep. Deep sigh. ‘Wheeler. You’re making it so fuckin’ easy.’ 

Wheeler jumps five feet away from Byers. Rubs at her lips with the back of her hand like that’ll make it go away. Make. All of this go away. 

She looks. Annoyed. At being interrupted, or maybe. At getting caught. 

Maybe at getting caught by the wrong person. 

Billy pinches the bridge of his nose, and it’s still so. So fucking ironic, and his head’s still splitting in half. He didn’t ask for this. For. For any of this. 

‘You gonna tell?’ 

Billy really. Really doesn’t feel like fucking doing that. Letting the guy he’s—the guy he’s screwing know his girlfriend’s cheating on him while he’s busy pushing his spit down Billy’s throat, like. How would that even go. 

He’s so. So impossibly tired. Three weeks before this year’s over, and he’s just. So tired. 

‘No,’ he says, and then again, ‘no. He’s not gonna find out, because you’re ending this right now. Actually. You know what. You,’ he turns to the half-shrunk shadow in the corner, ‘get the fuck outta my sight. Now.’ 

The shadow takes one. One single step towards him, like the prospect of a fight seems like a pretty wise decision, for a fleeting moment, and. Billy can’t have that. Not even for a fleeting moment, so. 

He takes. Three steps. ‘What is it, Byers? You fixin’ to have your bowels rearranged?’ 

‘Jon.’ Wheeler doesn’t move, doesn’t. Take any steps, but. Somehow it feels like. She’s the winner. ‘It’s okay, you can go. I think we need to have a talk anyway.’ 

His eyes fleet between her and Billy. Lock on Billy, ‘You sure?’ 

‘Yeah. Yeah, it’s fine.’ She rests a hand on his arm. Like Billy isn’t. There. ‘We’ll talk later, okay?’ 

Billy scoffs at that. No they won’t. Not if he has anything to do with it. ‘No, you won’t,’ he informs her, and he thinks. Neil would be proud of how. Unbending his voice comes out. ‘Well. Maybe just the one. To break it off with him.’ 

She’s still got her back to him. He gets a first class ticket to the show, the way her shoulders rise up to her ears, her pretty little nails jut out. Sharp enough to tear into flesh. His flesh. 

‘What does it matter?’ Billy’s gotta hand it to her. If there’s anger there, or. Fear. She manages to keep all of it out of her voice. Almost two decades under Neil’s thumb, and Billy still wears every emotion on his face. He resents her for that. For that, _too_. ‘Me and Jon. Why does it matter to you?’ 

‘Because he _chose_ you.’ He’s been kept in the dark like a rotten, unholy secret, the memory of Harrington’s eyes on him almost. Almost gone, because Billy only gets dark corners, and scorching touches, and whispered words that turn to dust when the light touches them, and she. She’s so. Ungrateful. ‘He chose you, alright? And you don’t get to hurt him. You don’t get to do that.’ 

She inches closer, one calculated step after the other. ‘He’s not here, you know. He can’t hear us. And I know how smart you are. Do you honestly believe he cares what I do?’ 

‘Listen—’ 

‘This? Me and Jon? It’ll sting, if he finds out, because he’s proud. But he doesn’t care, not really. I don’t think it falls on me to hurt him.’ 

Billy wishes. Wishes he’d picked something up, all these years with Neil, because this is number one, and he always forgets. You don’t bare your teeth when you’re cornered. You don’t let them smell your fear. 

He knows that, and he still snarls, and hisses, and. Bares his teeth. ‘He chose you.’ 

‘Did he?’ She tilts her head, scoffs, like. _C’mon_. ‘Doesn’t matter. I like him. I’m having fun.’ 

‘You don’t get it, princess.’ Billy’s blocking her exit in a blink. She doesn’t get to say when this is over. Harrington chose her, to be his, everywhere except in dark corners and empty classrooms, and Billy. Really fuckin’ hates ungratefulness. ‘You pick one. Harrington or your freak, but you. You can’t have both.’ 

You can see the blood, usually. In a fight. That’s one more thing he knows. When the fight’s over, you can see torn clothes, and open wounds, and blood. 

When she smooths down her shirt, fixes her hair, tightens her ponytail like talking to him mussed her up, ruined her. Good girl image, Billy looks and looks, and he doesn’t see any wounds. He doesn’t spot the blood. 

She smiles a sweet, deadly thing, says, ‘It’s not fair, though, is it? You’ve already had your pick,’ and. 

When Billy looks down, he can finally see the blood. 

It was on him all along. 

* * *

(He holds him tighter that day. 

He tangles fingers into his hair, and pulls him in, and Harrington crashes into him, and they kiss so hard it hurts, so hard their lips go numb and swollen and blue around the edges, and when Billy asks, Harrington lets him turn the light on. 

He holds him tighter, all of him pressed close to stop the words from climbing up, up, up his throat, because baring his teeth is what gets him in trouble, but the words Billy bites back with every kiss is what gets him killed. 

Harrington doesn’t ask, but he leaves the light on, and he grips Billy’s hips violently, painfully, wonderfully tighter, and when the bell rings. 

None of them moves.) 

* * *

Four days after Christmas, Harrington calls. Early enough to catch Billy awake and the day still ahead of them. Late enough to. Make sure Neil’s gone to work. 

Billy takes a breath, and he thinks of the ocean, and dark corners, and drowning on dry land. 

Harrington says _hey_ , and _baby_ , and _I miss you_ , so. 

* * *

He parks his car a couple blocks away. It sticks out like a sore thumb, his car in Harrington’s fancy lawn. Neighborhood. 

Life. 

He doesn’t get out, not right away. He turns the heat down, feels the cold biting at his edges, creeping in. 

He closes his eyes. 

The letter’s still there. Unsent. Still. Still there. 

Harrington—he said. _I miss you_ , so. 

Billy gets out of the car. 

* * *

He always forgets how. Vast this house is. 

Harrington greets him with a tilted head, and a smile softer than Billy can handle, and a, ‘Winter looks good on you.’ He steps aside to let Billy in, and. 

The house devours them. 

‘We alone?’ 

Harrington hums around the smile on his lips. Softer than Billy can handle. Soft enough to make him think of a letter, not. Not yet sent. 

‘Jus’ you an’ me, heartbreaker. Got the place all to ourselves.’ 

Which. Means— 

‘Your folks aren’t spending the holidays?’ Billy needs. A little more time. It’s been so long since he’s had Harrington, all his, in. The light. Last time he was here, Harrington. Asked him to stay. 

He keeps doing that. Asking Billy to. To stay. He keeps. Finding him. Billy doesn’t make it hard for him. Wants to be found. Doesn’t. Put up a fight when Harrington locks him in a new place every day, pushes him into the dark and steals his light. Steals his breath. 

His will to leave, too. 

Billy knows about locking things in dark places. Keeping them stashed away where no one can see them, no one can. Reach out and touch, and break, and. Rip apart. 

The letter’s been ready for weeks, and Billy. Doesn’t know what to do with it, other than. Keep it safe. Keep the secret away from the world. Safe, in a dark place. 

He wonders if maybe. Harrington’s doing the same with him, too. 

The arms that wrap around his waist kinda. Answers that. 

‘Came over for Christmas. They left this morning.’ Harrington’s half-speaking, half-licking the words on his neck, laughs when it gets Billy’s breath all. Shaky, gets him to tilt his head to the right, to make space for. Harrington. 

Billy nods at the decorations, all silver and golden and reinventing Christmas colors. Fuckin’ fancy rich people. He focuses on them, clings. Onto them to keep. His legs working. His lungs, too. ‘She do all that?’ 

Harrington hums into his ear. Leaves a kiss under his jaw. ‘You like it?’ 

‘It’s horrendous, Harrington.’ 

‘Guess it’s true what they say, huh.’ Harrington breathes out a laugh that lashes against Billy, raises goosebumps all over him. Presses closer. ‘Money can’t buy taste.’ He’s already filling out, Billy can feel it. Feel it matching his own. Aching, yawning need. It’s been so long. Too. Too long. Twenty minutes in dark places, every day for two months. It’s not enough. 

Harrington closes his teeth around Billy’s pulse, bites around it like he wants it beating inside him instead. ‘I know you like my room, though,’ he says, replaces teeth with soft. Soft lips, kissing the proof of Billy’s life. ‘How about you let me take you there?’ 

It makes Billy’s breath flutter in his chest, that question. Harrington doesn’t. Ask, he just. Takes, except. He’s asking, now. 

He wouldn’t be, not if he wasn’t sure he'd win. He already knows the answer. He wouldn’t be asking otherwise. 

Billy moans his name, and that’s the right answer, because. 

Harrington treads their fingers together, and laughs, and tugs until Billy _goes_ , and. 

He can’t see silver and golden anymore. 

* * *

Harrington’s sheets are blue. 

The kind of blue Billy thinks he can drown in, thinks. He wants to, and when Harrington lies on top of him, covers all of him, all of Billy hidden under Steve, spider fingers trailing a path down his body, stop. Between his legs, tracing circles. There, Harrington smiles, edges soft and spiked and. Dangerous, asks. 

Asks, ‘Never before?’ 

Billy nods, only just, only for. For him, and Harrington’s eyes go wide, all the universe in them, all. All of it. Billy, too, and. 

He crashes into him, draws a whine from Billy’s lungs, like the first breath, or. Like the last one. 

Whispers, never pulling back, whispers it on Billy’s lips, ‘For me?’ and Billy only. 

Looks at him, takes. Just one moment. To take him in. All of him. His lips and his brows and his. His eyes, and Harrington. 

Waits. 

Waits for him to look. 

Billy only. Needs one moment anyway. He pulls him back in the next, and he doesn’t say _please_ , he doesn’t say _yes_ , he doesn’t. 

Doesn’t say _only for you, only ever_ — 

He angles his head up, and he guides Harrington’s hand lower, and lower, and. 

He drowns. 

* * *

It’s slow. 

Every sound bounces off the walls, amplified, silence parting around it, absorbing every moan and hitched breath and. Every word, or just the one, just. Harrington’s name, over and over and over, until Harrington triumphs over the silence, too. Conquers it, with every press of fingers. Every press of his lips. 

Until there’s no more silence to annihilate, just. Billy falling apart with Harrington’s name on his lips. 

It’s slow. Not. Not gentle, not really, because. They can’t afford gentle, but. 

Harrington presses two fingers inside him, and Billy feels like he’s splitting apart, right in the middle, and it. 

It hurts. He’s never felt more alive. 

He climbs up his body to nip at his lips, ‘Want more?’, breath hitting Billy’s skin, getting him tingling and buzzing all over. 

‘Get _on_ with it,’ he growls back, buries. Fingers, nails in Harrington’s hair, tugs, pulls, twists. Twists locks around his fingers to maybe. Give Harrington a taste. How it feels to. Come apart. 

Harrington only. Laughs against his mouth, sounds. Unhinged, a bit. Like he’s losing control. Like he. He likes it. 

‘Let me enjoy my Christmas present, baby. ‘m not tryin’ to tear you apart. Just gotta unwrap you first, alright?’ 

He doesn’t wait for Billy’s nod, bites at his bottom lip like he’s hungry for blood. He. He gets what he’s asking for. Always does. Licks it up where it’s pooling through the slits, kisses it back into Billy’s mouth. 

Takes two fingers out, only to push back in with three. 

He gulps down Billy’s cry before the silence can eat it up. Harrington. He eats it up instead. 

It burns. 

Everything inside him burns, nerves all alight, crackling and fizzling around the edges. He’s a dying star, on a one-way path to a supernova. 

He wants Harrington inside him when he explodes. 

‘Steve,’ he claws at his chest, his face, his hand moving inside him, ‘c’mon.’ 

Harrington forces out a huff like he’s holding back a smile. ‘Does it hurt?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Billy doesn’t. Give a fuck if it comes out a whine, not when galaxies are forming behind his eyes. ‘Yeah, c’mon.’ 

It earns him a grunt, violent like Harrington’s the one in pain, here, earns him hips pressing against his leg, Harrington blood-hot and so. So hard for him. 

Earns him a kiss, stripped down to one soft, slow drag of lips against his. 

‘It’ll pass,’ Harrington whispers, and Billy. 

Believes him. 

Right until Harrington’s fingers are sliding out of him, and Harrington cups his face, and pushes in. 

Billy has to. He sinks his teeth into skin, drags a howl out of Harrington to match the one Billy’s muffling against his neck. It’s fair game. Billy’s got Harrington’s blood under his tongue, now, too. 

Nothing’s ever hurt so much. Two decades of fists, and bruises, and broken bones, and this is his undoing. 

He comes undone. 

It takes a second, to sink in, between heaving breaths and searing pain, but. 

Harrington’s not moving. He’s not. Doing anything, just. Stays still, pulsing inside, features pinched like. It takes everything from him, not to. Move. 

Billy meets eyes hunting over his face, almost. Worried. It can’t—he can’t do. Worried. So. ‘You gonna fuck me or what?’ 

Harrington still. Doesn’t move. Just. Flinches, like Billy landed a hit. ‘It gets easier,’ he breathes, lip caught between his teeth. 

It sounds like an apology, and Billy. Can’t do that, either. 

‘Got a lot of experience in taking dick, sweetheart?’ 

It does the trick. Puts the crown back on Harrington’s head, when he smirks, eyes shedding all the worry, trading it for fireworks, bright and sparkly and. So. Fuckin’ haughty. ‘You’re not my first virgin, baby.’ 

Billy. Scoffs. Winces, because every movement hurts. Tears him apart, bit by bit. ‘Was _she_?’ 

A shadow falls over Harrington’s eyes, turns them dark for a second. ‘Don’t talk about her,’ he says. Commands. ‘Not now, baby.’ 

Billy lets his eyes fall shut, and when he opens them again. 

The shadow’s gone. 

‘Fuckin’ move, then,’ he snarls, and. 

Turns out. Harrington can follow orders, too. 

He moves, crashes into Billy violently, almost. Desperately, like they’re. Running out of time, and Billy meets each thrust with a grunt, half-pain, half. Half-reverence, or. All of it. 

Harrington traps his face in his palms, forces. Forces Billy to look at him. Nothing else exists, just. Harrington, pressing him down, pushing in, pinning him down with his body. His eyes. 

‘Breathe, baby. Do that for me.’ 

Billy. Closes his eyes, whole world going black. Focuses only. On the path Harrington’s tracing on his cheeks, back and forth and back again. Applying. Warpaint. 

He breathes. Moves, just so, just to hear Harrington’s punched-out moan. ‘Feel good?’ 

‘Heaven, baby.’ Harrington grunts, thrusts, faster, and faster, licks stripes up Billy’s neck, makes it easier for his teeth to glide over. ‘Just like heaven.’ 

He tugs at his hair until he’s the only thing Harrington can see. ‘Better than her?’ 

The scent of blood floods the room, sour and acidic, when Harrington smashes their mouths together. Bites at every cut until it opens, again, until their lips are slick with it, until Billy’s bleeding for him. Again. 

‘Better than anyone,’ he growls, voice low and raspy, dragged through gravels on the way up his throat. ‘Than anything.’ 

He’s chasing it, Billy can tell, ready to tip over the edge, and when he pulls back, locks their eyes together, says, ‘And all yours,’ Harrington. 

Falls apart. Only for him. 

He falls apart, and he falls on him, chest heaving with every breath, struggling to take air in, still. Still moving inside Billy, pulsing and thrumming inside him, and Billy needs— 

He begs, ‘Steve,’ and, ‘Sweetheart, I just—’ and, ‘C’mon, I just need a little more,’ and. 

Harrington crushes him. Pins him down the mattress, pressing all his weight on him, whispers. 

Whispers, ‘All mine,’ into his mouth, and. 

When Billy comes with a cry, Harrington. 

Swallows it. 

* * *

They don’t really. Move, except to wipe the mess off. 

Well. 

Harrington gets up, cleans himself up, huffs out a laugh at Billy, still. Boneless between the sheets, staring at the ceiling and struggling for one good inhale. 

The mattress dips next to him, and Harrington smiles, ‘I fuck all the energy outta you?’, passes a wet wipe all over Billy’s body anyway. Gets him shivering, torn between moving away, and. 

Billy burrows closer the moment Harrington’s back in bed, and it’s. Not enough, because Harrington huffs, and he slithers an arm under Billy’s back, pulls him in, so close they’re melting into one another. 

It takes a second, but he gets their breaths in sync, gets his heart matching Harrington’s, beat for beat. 

There’s pain thrumming through his body, but it’s quiet now. Subdued. 

He doesn’t think it’s bliss, because they can’t. Afford it, but. He feels. Serene. 

Harrington’s carding fingers through his hair, rocking them both with every rise of his chest, every. Every fall, and Billy. 

He feels calm. 

He startles, when Harrington presses his lips at the crown of his head, starts. Humming a tune. He startles, and then he. Figures it out. Lets a smile take over his face. 

‘Just ask, Steve. ‘s not that hard.’ 

Harrington scoffs, and hums out another verse, and. ‘Fine. _Jackpot question_. Come over. For New Year’s Eve.’ 

‘Not a question.’ He gets a huff, so he threads his fingers through the coarse hair tickling his nose, tugs until Harrington. Whines, until Billy can feel him twitching against his hip. ‘Want me to be your first kiss? Start the new year right?’ 

Harrington hums, ‘Maybe.’ Pins Billy’s legs under his to. Keep him still. ‘Will you? Come give it to me?’ 

He could. He—Neil wants him home till midnight, because that’s what. Families do, dinners and Christmas trees and welcoming the new year together, but. 

He could. Could come by. After. Spend. The night. The first night of the year, spend it in— 

In Harrington’s arms. He could, except. 

‘Steve,’ he turns around in his clasp, rests his palm right. Right above his heart for support. Leaves it there. ‘Break it off with her.’ 

Harrington blinks at him, brows knitted together. Mouth tilted at the corners like someone pulled an invisible string. This. It’s not going to end well. 

‘Nancy? Why would I do that?’ 

It’s not gonna end well, but. 

Billy’s still holding his heart under his palm. ‘You love me.’ Not. Asking. Just. ‘Steve, you love me.’ 

Harrington doesn’t. Go anywhere, doesn’t slide out from underneath him, but. ‘Think you should go home, pal,’ he says, and Billy can see the wall going up again. The knife in his mouth. The blood on his lips. ‘It’s getting kinda late.’ 

‘No.’ He grips his face with the hand that held his heart a second ago. Forces him to. Look. At him. Billy needs—‘No, Steve, listen. Look at me. This isn’t—it’s not a trap, okay? I’m not trying to trick you into—’ He cups his face, curls. His fingers around the back of his neck. Holds on with. Everything he has. Everything he is. Breathes. ‘I don’t need you to say it, I. I won’t, either. I’m just letting you know I know. I know, okay? I’m giving you an out. Right now, just. Take it. Break up with her, Steve, please. Please, just. Take it.’ 

There’s. A moment. This. One moment, where they’re. Looking into each other’s eyes, almost. Not. Breathing, not talking, just. Looking. 

This one moment, where Harrington. Shows him. Lets him see. Gives an answer to a question never asked. 

It’s only a moment, and Harrington blinks, blinks away everything soft and fragile and open, and Billy knows. He won’t be spending the first night of the year here. 

‘You know what I think? I think you’re hiding stuff from me, heartbreaker. I think you’re keeping secrets, and I’m gonna find out. Won’t be nice, baby.’ 

It falls on him like a quilt of bricks, the. Exhaustion. Billy’s just. So tired. All drained out of fight. 

He nods, and he gets up, and Harrington. Doesn’t stop him. Looks around for his clothes, and gets dressed, and Harrington doesn’t make a move, doesn’t say a word, doesn’t. 

Doesn’t stop him. 

He only speaks when Billy’s fist is curled around the doorknob, twisting it open. He says, ‘Billy?’ and he waits until Billy’s scraped up the last remains of energy in his body to look at him. ‘Nancy’s my girlfriend. Don’t forget that.’ 

It flashes behind his eyes, the memory of her and Byers, and he. Almost. Lets it travel the path to his mouth, but. 

His ticket out of here is still in his car. 

Billy rips his eyes off Harrington, and he opens the door, and he doesn’t say a word. 

He walks out. 

* * *

He’s seen snow before. Twice. Twice, but. Not like that. 

It’s been falling steadily for days. Heavily. He’s never had to deal with that before, roads covered in ice and sleet. Means driving’s out of the picture, means spending the holidays trapped in Neil’s house, means. 

Means a letter, stored safely in his car, still. There. Unsent. 

Billy’s vibrating with it by the time school starts again, the need to. Move. Run. Get out. 

Leave, and. Never come back. Leave everything behind. Leave. Everyone. 

He drinks in the ice in the air. It settles in his lungs, burning blue and bright and frozen. Not much longer, now. Only a few more months. 

Max’s got her board under her arm. Looks set on meeting her icy death on the first days of the new year in fuckin’. Hawkins, and. 

Billy won’t let that happen. 

He doesn’t give her time to yell before the board’s snatched away and locked in the Camaro. She _does_ yell when he reaches a hand to mess her hair up. ‘How about you _don’t_ crack your head open on ice today, Maxine. Sound good to you?’ 

She manages to. Somehow. Punch his arm while rolling her eyes at him. ‘’m not fucking stupid, Billy. Unlike you, I’m _careful_.’ 

‘Sure, kid. And Santa brought you those new wheels. Wanna hear another one?’ 

She mumbles, ‘You’re so dumb, ohmy _god_ ,’ under her breath, but she’s also. Laughing, so. 

He doesn’t take it to heart. He says, ‘Don’t I know it,’ and when she squints at him, like the privilege of derogatory pet names is exclusively hers, ‘See you at three, alright?’ 

She rolls her eyes, again, starts walking, doesn’t turn to look at him when he flips him off, shouts, ‘Have a nice day, asshole,’ over her shoulder, so. 

Billy figures he can count on her to be there. 

* * *

He can’t avoid him forever. He knows that. Not even for. The next five months. It’s just. 

He just needed. A little more time. 

He needs a little more time, except when he walks out into the backyard, Carol. Spots him instantly. Waves him over. To come sit with her, and Tommy, and. Harrington with his girl. 

Harrington follows her gaze until he meets Billy’s, and. 

Billy can’t—he just. He needs more time. 

He turns around. Walks away, until the only thing he can see is the sky, through the slits of the wooden boards. It’s. He’s safe here. Under the bleachers. Safe, and. 

‘Why didn’t you show up?’ 

He sighs. Pockets the smoke he’d placed between his lips a second ago. When he was alone, and. Safe. ‘We’re not doing this here.’ 

There’s footsteps, more than Billy can. Handle, and Harrington’s so. So much closer, now. ‘Why didn’t you come over?’ 

He just. Billy needed. A little more. Until he had to look at him again. He just— 

‘Why would I?’ 

He looks. Good, Harrington looks so good, and kinda. Tired, and he raises a brow, and he. ‘I asked you to.’ 

‘No.’ Billy shakes his head, takes a step back until he catches the sun on his face, wintery grey and weak, but. Still thawing some of the ice in him. ‘You never asked, Steve. You told me, because that’s what you do. You don’t ask.’ 

Harrington shoots him a laugh, breathy and. Dismissive. ‘Fuck does that mean? Alright, I didn’t ask. I told you to come over, because I wanted you to. So. Why didn’t you?’ 

‘Because we fucked,’ Billy says, ‘and you told me to come over and spend New Year’s with you, and then you reminded me you got a girlfriend.’ He puts the smoke back in his mouth. It’s. Grounding. He needs as much of that as he can get. He lights it up. Lights up something in Harrington’s eyes, too. Billy’s small act of defiance, setting fires on holy grounds. 

‘So I figured,’ he shrugs, cigarette dangling on every word, covers them in smoke, covers. Billy in smoke, too. ‘Might be better to let you spend it with her. Get her to open her legs for you, the way I do.’ He flicks the ash off. Reclaims the ground he ceded with just. One step. ‘But that’s not what you want, right? You asked me, because she doesn’t do it for you. Because no one else does, not like. I do. Right?’ 

Harrington’s mouth tilts up, hands reaching between them, chopping the distance up in tiny shards, ‘Baby—’ 

It’s funny. Billy. He can see it now, the irony. He had that same talk with Harrington’s girl not. Three weeks ago. ‘You can’t have both, Steve,’ he says, and everything in him soars with the victory of a firm voice. Steady and icy. One thing the sun hasn’t thawed. ‘You can’t have everything. You chose her.’ 

It’s. Dead silent, for a beat. None of them moves. Like the snow froze them, too. 

Harrington lowers his head, and when he raises his eyes back up to find Billy’s, he. He looks almost. Sad. Apologetic, because he’s steering the wheel, and he still. He can’t stop the crash. 

‘What do you think it’s gonna happen, Billy? Say I break up with her. Then what? What happens? I walk around Hawkins with you on my arm? Take you on dates and get your chair and pay the bill like you’re my girl?’ 

‘Stop—’ 

‘That what you want, baby? You wanna be my girl?’ 

‘Harrington, stop.’ 

He. He doesn’t. He doesn’t stop. Never does. ‘That’s not what this is, Billy, do you get that? That’s not what we’re doing here.’ He gets close. So close the sun’s hidden behind him, and his voice is just above a breath, and Billy. Feels so. So cold. ‘This doesn’t mean a thing.’ 

It’s written all over him. The lie. He forces every word out, sharpens them and dips them in venom and aims at Billy’s heart. Billy. Knows. He knows, and he. 

He doesn’t care. Not anymore. He’s tired, and. It’s all over, anyway. Nothing to fight for. 

He licks his lips. The venom off them. Lethal, liquid courage. ‘She’s cheating on you. You know that? Well. Not anymore, not if I have anything to do with it. Your girl’s cheating on you with that guy, that. Byers kid, and I gave you an out, Steve. I tried.’ 

He can’t look at him. He’ll unravel, he knows it. He looks at the ground, instead. The ground, and the sun, filtered through the cracks, and the sky. Grey and blurry and. Wrong. 

‘I didn’t want you to find out.’ He lets out a scoff. Winces with how. Bitter it sounds. He. Feels bitter. And so. So tired. ‘I didn’t want you to know, in case you. I don’t even know anymore. In case you actually. Like her.’ He laughs, and he looks up at him, then, finds the same sadness he did before, except. He’s past caring. It’s over. ‘It’s funny, right? I didn’t want you to get hurt. You never seemed to have any trouble hurting me.’ 

‘Fuckin’ spare me the drama, man—’ 

Billy cuts him off. Again, ‘I believe you,’ makes. 

Harrington falter. ‘What?’ 

‘I believe you.’ His words come out icy and sharp. Frozen, held tight like a razor between his teeth. Harrington’s been blocking the sun for too long. ‘I believe you, okay? There’s nothing here. This,’ he motions between them, figures. It’s probably the last time, ‘means nothing to you. That what you wanna hear? I believe you.’ 

Harrington forces out a breath. A white, icy cloud, that almost. Sounds like a laugh. Tilted in all the wrong ways. ‘You’re lying.’ 

‘No. No, you are. And this is over. Go to your girl.’ 

Icy cold washes over him when he’s pushed against a post, seeps through his clothes, worms its way into his lungs. Makes them rattle with every breath. 

Harrington says, ‘It’s over when I say it is,’ and Billy doesn’t. Hear him, not really. Can’t tear his eyes away from the blood on Harrington’s lips, unearthed by frost and teeth and. Want. 

He’d have dived in. A few weeks ago, he. He would have. Licked it up, his own blood singing when mixing with Harrington’s. 

He would have, a while ago. He’s. So tired, now. 

It’s all over. 

‘You went too far, Steve.’ He pushes at Harrington’s shoulders with the heels of his palms. Gentler than he. Ever deserved. ‘It’s over.’ 

Harrington—his mouth. Twists up in a snarl, lips parting around. The last word, that always. Always has to belong to him, and then he. 

Forces out a breath, and. 

Billy slumps on the ground, and he gulps down lungfuls of ice, and he watches Harrington walk away, and he. 

He has the last word. 

It doesn’t feel like winning. 

* * *

He stores away enough breaths to last him until the end of the day. 

He. Ends up using half of them when he walks back to them, and Harrington’s already got his girl settled on his lap. Carding his fingers through her hair, like that’ll make up for the blankness in his eyes. 

She looks at him, like she’s wondering if Harrington knows, like she. 

Like she knows it doesn’t matter. _He chose me_. 

Carol pats the empty space next to her, which Billy suspects Tommy was forced away from for Billy’s sake. He’s never. Felt more grateful for anything. 

He falls heavily to her side with a _hey doll_ , and Carol. 

Knows. She knows, asks, ‘You okay?’ with more gentleness than Billy thinks he deserves, either. 

There’s a letter in his car, sealed. Ready. To be sent. His magic ride out of here, and. The day’s almost over. 

He smiles at her, and nods, ‘Never been better,’ and. 

He means every word. 

* * *

‘They dumped a load of homework on you on the first day?’ 

Max eyes him suspiciously. ‘No? What’dya want? No. You’re being weird.’ 

He snorts, because. Well. ‘Good girl, Max. Never trust anyone.’ 

‘You’re officially freaking me out.’ 

He laughs, and then the. The silence must stretch out a bit too long for comfort, because Max turns to him, not. All the way worried, but. Her mouth’s already crossed half the distance. ‘What’s wrong?’ 

‘Nothing.’ She raises a brow at him, so he tells her again. Because it’s. It’s true. ‘Nothing’s wrong. Got something I need to do down in Indy. Was wondering if you wanna go for a ride.’ 

It’s. Adorable, how her eyes widen, eating up her entire face. ‘Indy’s like. An hour’s drive from here.’ 

He half-turns to look at her. They’re nearing Neil’s house. The urge to step on the gas and drive away, Billy and Max and the letter, it’s. He’s shaking with it. 

‘So? You got somewhere to be?’ 

She takes him in for a second, and then she shakes her head, and. 

They speed by the sign, _LEAVING HAWKINS, COME AGAIN SOON_ , and the words don’t drop like rocks in his stomach for. The first time. 

They follow the setting sun, and Billy thinks. 

Only a few more months. 

* * *

She lasts about seven minutes, which. 

Billy’s gotta hand it to her, it’s a personal record. 

‘So,’ she starts, drags out the vowel in case Billy decides to end her suffering before she even asks. He doesn’t. ‘What’s so important you gotta drive two towns over for?’ 

He bites his lip. Taps his fingers on the wheel to the beat of his heart. Fast fast fast— 

He nods towards the glove compartment. ‘Open that.’ 

In an unprecedented display of obedience, she. Does. Zeroes in on the letter in a second. Scrunches his brows at him, like, _that?_

He nods, again. Heart beating faster, fingers thrumming faster, too. Waiting for the answer won’t be nearly as nerve-wracking, he’s sure of it. 

She turns it around in her fingers. Brows all knotted, her whole face scrunched up and. Adorable. His eyes keep flitting between the road and the passenger seat to catch the moment she. Gets it. 

She sucks in a breath. Lights up, lets out a squeal Billy knows she’ll refuse producing for the rest of her days, and she. 

She punches him in the arm. 

Not like. Hard, but. 

‘Ow, Max, what the _fuck_.’ 

‘You could’ve said something, asshole,’ she says. Shouts at him, and she. Punches him. Again. ‘That’s so great, Billy, why didn’t you,’ punch. Again, ‘ _say_ something?’ 

He swats her away to rub at the spot she keeps landing hits on. Fuckin’ bitch. ‘Keep punching me like that, I’ll crash the car before I ever get to Indy. Let alone.’ He nods at her hands. His ticket out of here clasped tightly in them. ‘Back home.’ 

Max only. Smiles big and bright at him, so. 

‘’Sides. There’s nothing to tell. Haven’t even sent the letter yet. Wait until I get in to bring out the cake.’ 

When she folds her legs under herself on the seat, Billy. Kinda. Doesn’t have the heart to tell her off, not with. That stupid smile on her mouth and the road stretching ahead. 

‘Please,’ she scoffs, ‘I’ve seen your grades. You’re _so_ getting in.’ 

Her smile’s infectious. He lets it spread over his face, too. ‘Yeah. Yeah, maybe.’ 

They drive for a while in silence, fingers resuming the frantic drumming on the wheel, because. When Max stays silent for too long, Billy. He knows to gear up for something bad. 

‘Have you told him?’ she says, and Billy thinks. 

Not as bad as he expected. 

Scoffs, ‘No fuckin’ way. He’ll find out the day he wakes up and my room’s empty,’ and he thinks. Okay. That’s over now, too, except. 

‘Not Neil.’ She’s chewing on a cuticle. Stalling, except Max is as far from a coward as they get, so. She powers through. ‘I mean your friend. The one you like.’ 

He almost. Almost steers the car off the road. 

He’s got _I don’t like him_ ready on his tongue, _He’s not my friend, It’s not like that_ , but. 

He can’t—he doesn’t wanna lie. To her. She deserves better. She deserves so much better, and Billy’s all she got, so. 

‘No,’ he says, and his voice is not trembling, not. Much, and it’s the closest thing to the truth he can give her. ‘Max. Listen, _you_ know, and the woman who helped me write this knows, and. No one else.’ He turns to the side to meet her eyes. There’s worry there, and some of that smile still deep inside them, and there’s. No fear. ‘No one else knows, get it?’ 

He turns back to the road when it gets too much. Her eyes on him, all big and bright and. Worried. Watches from the corner of his eye as she pushes the letter back into the glove compartment. Slowly and. Carefully. Reverently. 

Then she huffs a soft laugh to. Get him to look. ‘Good boy,’ she says, smiling. So wide. ‘Never trust anyone. Except me. Obviously. Always trust me.’ 

Billy. Stares at her for a moment, and then he. 

He laughs, and laughs, and when Max joins him, manages a _You’re buying fries when we’re done_ around it, Billy thinks. 

It’s okay. 

It’s gonna be okay. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hiii i've had a few people asking about steve's motives behind his actions and just. what his pov would sound like so i thought i'd link some [asks](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/tagged/break%20\(like%20waves\)) i've answered on that subject in case anyone's interested? and my inbox is always open for more questions or prompts or. literally anything. just sayin' 🥰
> 
> also i don't think i'll find the time to update again before the year's over (laugh track) (i will definitely NOT find the time) so. i wanted to thank everyone for being here and trusting me with your hearts (a very bold and. quite frankly. bad decision) and just. being so freakin supportive. i appreciate it so much and i hope everyone gets to spend the rest of this cursed year doing stuff they love and staying safe and. sane. happy new year, babes 💖


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> me, tears streaming down my face: i love you guys so much here's some angst

Everything’s too loud today. 

Books snapping shut are bombs, and the bell sending him to practice rings right between his ears, and. 

Billy doesn’t look at him, but. 

The ball’s hitting the floor, leaving a kiss on the parquet. Burrowing back under Harrington’s palm. Billy doesn’t look at him, but. 

His bones are rattling like he’s the one bounced up and down and up again. 

He forces out a breath, flexes his fingers till they’re cutting air instead of flesh. There’s blood thrumming under his skin, that much he knows. No need trying to dig it up. 

His head’s a list of promises he’s set on keeping, but sparing a glance at Tommy swooping in and stealing the ball from where Harrington’s still dribbling it to death isn’t breaking the rules. He can’t help it if Harrington’s. Right there. 

He’s open, so Tommy passes him the cause of Billy’s headache, or. Well. The ball, still flesh-warm from the actual cause. Billy’s. Trying to be better about. Honesty. There’s that second promise. 

He winks at Tommy, and gets the ball through the hoop with a perfect, smooth _whoosh_. 

A perfect match for the breath Billy lets out the moment the whistle blows the game over. 

It still comes out kinda wrong, though, and Billy wants. He wants to shake himself upside down to get the sawdust out of his lungs. 

He answers Tommy’s _you good?_ with a, ‘Better than your mom last night, Hagan,’ because that’s what gets him a few snickers, and Tommy off his back, and. 

He’s got a list of promises, and he’s set on making right by them, so. 

He walks out of the gym, and his eyes never go on the hunt for Harrington, and Billy. 

Tells himself he doesn’t care, because keeping one promise is good enough for today. 

* * *

Everything’s too loud, right until his knuckles knock against her door. That comes out. Muted, almost. Hushed, like stepping on snow. 

Her quiet _come in_ is. It’s enough to settle the rattling in his bones. 

He steps inside, and he feels like staying still is maybe on the table for. The first time, today. 

‘Here’s my star student.’ 

‘You’re not my teacher, Ely.’ He rolls his eyes, but he thinks maybe. The smile on his face is a dead giveaway. 

She waves a hand. ‘Semantics. What can I do for you?’ 

‘Are you.’ He licks at a sore spot on his lip, throbbing warm under his tongue. Buying himself some time, or. Something. ‘You busy? I can. Go.’ 

‘Billy. What’s wrong?’ 

The breath he forces out means _everything_. Means _two decades of fists and two years of Harrington_. Means—means breaking the second promise. 

He wants to leave everything behind. He. He wants to. Want to leave. Everything behind, and that’s. That’s a problem. _Everything_ goes sour down his throat, because Billy’s been trying, but. 

_Everything_ still doesn’t. Mean _everything_. 

He licks at his teeth, already taking a step back, because that’s one thing she can’t get him out of, and. 

‘You eaten anything today?’ 

He. Blinks at her. ‘Uh. Lunch?’ 

‘ _Uh, lunch_ means a sandwich and an apple five hours ago?’ Her brow’s already raised before he huffs out an affirmation, reluctantly, and nods. ‘Got any fancy plans for dinner?’ 

He almost snaps _dad and Sue are outta town_ , and _Max is living it up at her friend’s place_ , and the kitchen's _empty because only three out of four matter in that house_ , and he. 

Almost snaps _mind your own_ , but. 

She’s been nice. She keeps. Doing that. So. 

He shakes his head, and bites his tongue, and chokes on his own venom. 

‘Good,’ she says, pushing away from her desk, smoothing a crease on her pants, clutching her briefcase. ‘Follow behind me and. Don’t get lost.’ 

* * *

The house she pulls up at looks. Exactly the same as the one to the right, and the one to the left, and every other house on that street. Looks. Lived in, and warm, and. 

Safe. 

She motions for him to park next to her. Walks around her car to knock on his windows when he. Stays still, hands still gripping the wheel, feet still on the pedal. Always ready to go. Neil would be. So proud of him. 

He rolls the window down to her. Frowning at him. ‘You’re. Inviting me over. To your place. For. Dinner.’ 

She leaves a dramatic gasp, covers her mouth and everything. It doesn’t. Make his lips twitch. It doesn’t. 

‘And you’re still wondering if you’re getting into college? Honey, they’d be crazy to let that kinda genius get away from them.’ Her shoulders kinda. Sag, when he doesn’t answer. Her face. Softens. ‘That’s what’s got you clawing out of your skin, right?’ 

He scoffs, and it’s not even remotely hostile, and he hates this world and everyone in it. ‘What, dinner’s gonna fix everything?’ 

‘Well,’ the porch light flicks on at the same moment the smile on her face lights up. ‘Unless you got any better ideas. How about you come in and give it a try? Zach’s a pretty decent cook. Surprisingly.’ 

He doesn’t really. Have an argument to. Any of that, and he hates the whole world, but that kinda. Doesn’t include her, so. 

* * *

The smell of home-cooked food assaults his nostrils the moment she ushers him through the door with a hand on his back. To be sure he won’t. Run. 

Then a wooden ladle is shoved under his nose, and the only source of light disappears behind a wall of a guy, locks of brown hair pulled up in a messy bun, wearing. An apron. ‘Boots and coats off,’ is what he welcomes them with, turning to Ely, shaking some of the snow off her shoulders. ‘You’re not getting any of this inside. Unless you wanna eat in the foyer today.’ 

Billy doesn’t. Need to be told twice. Has already hung his jacket up before an automatic _yessir_ leaves his lips. 

‘Name’s Zach,’ the guy says, and he sounds. Softer now, which. Must’ve something to do with the look Ely’s shooting at him. ‘And you know Ely, and you’re—’ 

‘Billy,’ Ely says. 

The guy nods in agreement, as if Billy had any say in his name. As if Billy’s ever had any say in. Anything. ‘Billy. Nice to meet you, Billy. Cece is. Somewhere around here, too, so now we’re all on a first-name basis. Sound good?’ 

Billy hums, and doesn’t open his mouth for a good minute, to let out the second _yessir_ of the evening, but. ‘Cece?’ 

‘Oh, you’ll like her,’ Ely says around. A sly smile, like she knows something he doesn’t. She turns to her. Husband, Billy guesses. ‘Dinner ready? I’ll go set the table.’ 

‘I can help—’ 

She shuts him up with a raised finger. ‘I’m not making you set the table on your first time here. ‘ Starts steering him towards the. Living room. Lit up and warm and. Safe. ‘Saving that for the second time. Now. Go introduce yourself to Cece, get approved, and I’ll. Call you guys in a sec.’ 

Billy has. No fucking idea who Cece is, or why he needs her approval, but the guy. Zach, is already following after him, chuckles, ‘Don’t worry. She’s not a biter. Usually,’ and. 

Billy’s strangely grateful. 

The living room is. Smothered in glitter. All of it. There’s a thick glittery coat blanketing the two couches, and the armchair, and the coffee table, and. 

‘Cece. We have a guest.’ 

Cece is. Two big eyes, and a head of hair, and. Glitter. All over. ‘Billy,’ Zach says while she walks over to them, ‘this is Cecilia.’ 

She scrunches her nose. Her tiny, glitter-covered nose. ‘Cece. Like the princess.’ 

Billy huffs, because. Well. It’s inescapable. Rubbing elbows with royalty. Here, in fuckin’. Indiana. Who fuckin’ knew. 

He doubts she’s like the other resident princess, though. She looks too. Benign. And. Glittery. 

‘Honored to meet you, your Majesty,’ he says. Takes her little hand when she deems him worthy of it. Ruffles her hair a bit, too, just to. Smear some glitter on him, to. Fit in. 

She squints at him. Somehow it feels. Important, this moment. He’s being scanned from head to toe. It’s. Waiting for the acceptance letter hasn’t gotten him sweaty and uncomfortable the way. This does. 

‘You eatin’ with us?’ 

He chances a glance at Zach, who’s looking. Extremely pleased with the whole thing, mouth twitching like he’s fighting back a smile. He shrugs at Billy, and Billy decides he. Doesn’t like him. 

He crouches down so they’re. At eye level. Even her eyebrows are sparkling. It’s. It’s cute. 

‘That okay with you?’ 

Her nose remains. Scrunched while she looks at him. Then she nods, once, very grave, and very resolute. It’s. Cute. ‘You can stay,’ she says. Very seriously. ‘You’re pretty.’ 

Billy breathes out a sigh of relief. Kinda feels like his life was spared by. The queen. ‘Thank fuck for that,’ he mutters, and then says, ‘Fuck,’ and then. Winces. ‘Sorry.’ 

Zach says, ‘Don’t worry, she’s heard worse,’ and that. Doesn’t sit right by Billy, and then Zach bubbles out a laugh at whatever. Horror he reads all over his face, ‘I’m a therapist. Work at home. Sometimes sessions get. Intense,’ and when he flops down the couch Cece’s already burrowing under his arm before his back hits the cushion, and. 

That’s better. 

He’s still crouched down on the floor. It’s easy to fall back, make himself small between the coffee table and the couch. The door is. Ten, maybe twelve steps away. Ely didn’t lock. Billy noticed. The handle goes up and then to the right to get the door open. He noticed that, too. 

‘I’m not used,’ he says, still counting exits. Still counting steps. ‘To. Kids. Talking to them. My sister is. Well. A kid, still but. Her mouth’s worse than mine.’ 

If he finds it. Odd, Billy sitting ass-down on the floor, as close to the nearest exit as possible, Zach. Doesn’t show it. Doesn’t comment on it. Instead, he wraps an arm around Cece, who’s. Somehow, impossible, managed to make sprinkle even more glitter on the couch. And herself. 

‘Kids these days, I swear.’ He smiles down at her when Cece frowns at the tube stuck between her fingers. Pulls it off. Gently. ‘Ely comes back with a new story every day. She’s been talking a lot about you lately, too. She really believes in you. Getting in. What with your smarts, and all.’ 

‘I keep telling her. ‘m not nearly as smart as she makes it out to sound. Smart compared to everyone else in this stupid fu—’ He snaps his head up just in time to catch Zach lowering his to hide a smirk. That’s. Uncharted territory. He should be getting a slap, right about now. A name, spit at his face. A punch, a jacket thrown his way, _get the fuck outta my house_. Something. He doesn’t know what to do with. A smile. ‘I. Uh. Didn’t mean it like that.’ 

Zach calls him out with a raised brow, and. Nothing else. Lets it. Slip. ‘’s alright. I get it. Small town, small minds, right? That means you stand out. Means getting noticed.’ 

There are three, maybe. Four possible exits, if Billy can manage to squeeze through the window. He’s starting to think. Maybe he won’t be needing any of them. 

‘’s what I’m counting on,’ he breathes out, and doesn’t. Rinse out the emotion. It’s safe here, he thinks. Doesn’t fall on. Sharp spikes. 

They walk to the table when Ely calls for them. There’s a bright green booster seat on one of the chairs. Cece stares at it, very seriously. Stares at Billy. Stares at the seat again. 

He raises his hands, palms out. ‘Don’t look at me, there’s no way I fit in that.’ 

When he frowns up at him, betrayed, he kinda. Feels like he let her down, which. Familiar. Being a disappointment. It’s a familiar taste. 

Ely’s laugh breaks the. Tension between Billy and. The four-year old. ‘Cecilia. Go take your seat and leave Billy alone.’ 

She keeps. Glaring at him, and it’s ridiculous, because she’s. As big as a life-size doll, but. His palms are getting sweaty. 

‘When we’re done,’ he starts, huffs a couple of times, like. That’ll preserve some of his dignity, ‘if you’re good. You can glue sparkles on my jacket,’ he sighs. Resigned. 

Her eyes become. Impossibly larger. She beams at him. ‘Really?’ 

The finger he shakes at her face is. More for his sake than hers, really. ‘Only if you eat your food. And your greens.’ 

She thinks about it for a second. Looks between her parents. They’re trying to fight back smiles. Both of them. They’re failing. Both of them. 

Then she nods, once, very resolutely, and she sticks out her hand. ‘Deal.’ 

He doesn’t shake her hand. Scoops her up instead, places her in her seat. Takes. Extra care to be. As gentle as fucking possible. He’s not used to handling fragile things. Still intact. Not. Broken. Not yet. 

He ruffles her hair, too. More for his sake than. Hers. 

‘So. Uh. I have to ask,’ Zach says when they’re all seated. ‘And you don’t have to answer if you haven’t thought about it, or. Haven’t decided yet. Or if you just. Don’t feel like saying it out loud. But. Uh. Have you settled on a major?’ 

He. Has. He’s thought about his major, and his apartment, the gas money. The bills. He’s thought about everything. Built a whole life in his head. Built a whole life for himself in California. Every detail needs to be perfect. Figured out, like if. One thing crumbles. Everything will. 

He’s been thinking about it for. Months. 

‘I like the ocean,’ he says on an exhale, and it’s not an answer, but. It kinda is, too. ‘I’d like to do. Something. Related. I was thinking. Oceanographer. Or. I’m good at Bio, so maybe. Marine biologist?’ He looks down at his hands. He’s good with his hands. ‘Or even engineering. I’m good at manual stuff. It’s easy to. Get.’ 

Ely’s beaming at him, so. Proud. More than Billy can handle. 

He turns to Zach. Sorta finds a matching look on his face. ‘Seems to me you’re underplaying your abilities. By a mile,’ Zach says, and fights off the look Billy shoots at him with, ‘Sorry. Therapist switch is off now, I swear.’ 

He lets out a scoff. Comes out closer to a sniffle than he’s comfortable with. ‘It’s. The first time. I’ve told anybody.’ 

A crumpled piece of bread hits his wrist, and he looks up to find Ely hiding a slice of rye under her napkin. His next scoff sounds like a laugh, and he. He’s not that bothered. 

‘You’ll name a fish after me, right?’ 

‘I’ll name a whole damn californian reef, ma’am.’ 

Zach sucks in a sharp breath from where he’s scooping a bite of mashed potatoes on Cece’s spoon. ‘California’s a long way from home.’ 

Billy laughs. ‘California _is_ home.’ Licks the betrayal behind his teeth. Brown eyes and blue skies and kisses that taste like summer, and peach, and sun. 

Taste like goodbye. 

‘I’ve only been here for a couple years,’ he amends. ‘Cali’s home, though. The. The ocean. That’s why I’m so set on it. Going back.’ 

‘Man, I get it. Why would you wanna stay here when you know what heaven’s like?’ Zach yelps when Ely slaps his arm, ‘What? You know I’m right. He’s got a chance to get out. He should be grabbing it by the horns.’ 

‘That’s what we’re doing here, babe.’ 

Billy bows his head to hide a smile, and only flinches a bit when she says, ‘It’s always sad, though, leaving people behind.’ 

He swallows down the taste of peach, and breaks his second promise. Says, ‘I don’t think I’ll miss anyone. Not really.’ Shakes his head when that. Doesn’t sound remotely close to the truth. ‘Well. No, Max, I’ll—I’ll miss her.’ 

‘Your sister?’ 

‘Step—yeah.’ He sighs. He’s only ever saying half of what he means. Maybe it’ll get better, back home. He. Hopes it will. ‘Yeah. I don’t like it. Leaving her behind. Feels. Wrong. Going home without her. Leaving her here with—’ 

Ely covers his palm with hers. She’s got a special kinda sadness in her eyes. Almost like. Recognition. ‘I’ve seen her rolling through school with her board. She looks perfectly capable of taking care of herself.’ She nods, like she’s trying to convince herself more than Billy. ‘And, honey, you live in. Where. Cherry? That’s a fifteen minute walk from here. You tell her, if she ever needs anything. Door’s always open. Always, Billy, got it?’ She gives his hand a squeeze. Grounding, and tethering. Safe. ‘And I’ll be keeping an eye on her at school.’ 

His _yeah?_ comes out cracked, and kinda wet, and. Grateful. Relieved. 

She nods, again. Squeezes his hand. Again. ‘Yeah, honey. No one can do it all alone, Billy. Never forget that.’ 

* * *

She sends him home with a tupperware, and a hug, and. A promise she makes him recite until he knows it by heart. _You’re not alone_. 

She says, ‘It extends to both of you,’ and, ‘You’re always welcome here,’ and, ‘You’re not alone,’ and. 

Zach and Cece are nodding behind her, and smiling, even as they’re disappearing behind the door. 

Billy keeps the hug, and keeps the promise, and feeds mashed potatoes and carrots to the stray cats on Cherry. Neil’s due back home tomorrow, and home-cooked food can’t be explained without setting a few bombs off. 

The left lapel of his jacket is shining with little blue and green and pink sparkles, and he keeps that too. He can use some of that in his life. 

* * *

It’s a cosmic joke. 

One year ago, he was throwing fries at Harrington across the table. 

The waitress slides the heart-shaped waffle in front of him. Throws in a pitying look to remind him this is a joke, and he’s the punchline. 

Tommy’s snort carries from the other side of the table. He’s half-hidden behind the largest banana split Billy’s ever seen. Carol’s hair is almost obscured by it, and that. Says a lot. 

There’s a string of chocolate syrup on his chin. 

Billy rolls his eyes. ‘Man. You sure you don’t want me to fuck off? Leave you two alone on your date?’ 

Carol’s hair appears behind the bowl. And her lashes. And her. Very unimpressed glare. ‘Honey, what date? We’ve been together since kindergarten. Valentine’s is for couples who still like each other.’ 

‘ _Hey_.’ Tommy’s protests kinda. Loses its gravitas when Carol stuffs his mouth with a whipped cream-dipped cherry. Billy hates himself for finding. All of this. Cute. For. Wondering. How it must feel like to just. Have this. ‘And what kindergarten? I didn’t ask you out until third grade.’ 

Carol sighs, like. _See what I mean_ , wipes whipped cream and chocolate off Tommy’s chin. ‘I know, dear. I’d already decided.’ 

It’s easy, Billy finds out. Laughing, around them. Breathing. It’s easy. 

He laughs, ‘Carrie, I swear, if I wasn’t—’ 

‘Spoken for?’ 

He tilts his head. Starts, ‘I was gonna say—’ 

Never gets to the end. 

Carol follows his gaze, to the open door, and the flurry of snowflakes blasting in, and. Harrington’s arm around the princess. His mouth, lifted at the corners. His eyes. Not on the princess. Not on Tommy, or Carol, or. 

His eyes, on Billy. 

It was so. Easy, a second ago. To breathe. Now ice’s settled in his lungs, and every inhale is drudged up under frost. He can hear his insides crackling. 

There’s thin ice, and. There’s breaking. 

‘Billy? Honey, we leaving?’ 

‘What? Why?’ Tommy frantically looks up from his waffle cone until his eyes set on Harrington. ‘Oh. Fuckin’ idiot.’ He sends Billy a look, so. Apologetic, like any of this is. His fault. Turns to Carol. ‘Should I get the—’ 

‘Hagan. Settle down. ‘s cool.’ Carol’s shooting him down with a deathly glare, so Billy. Stuffs his mouth with his heart-shaped waffle. It’s torn to bits by now. ‘Should go pick up Max from her stupid date anyway. She’s not supposed to be out after nine.’ 

He sways to the right to avoid a banana bit thrown his way, and when he looks up, Carol’s smiling at him. Kinda knowing. Kinda sad. 

‘Finish your waffle, first. And your shake.’ 

Billy returns the smile, and breathes a little easier, and doesn’t look at Harrington. ‘Deal.’ 

* * *

He doesn’t look at Harrington, until the diner door’s clicked shut behind him, and the smoke curling around his wrists and dragging him into the shadows smells royal. 

Harrington’s leaning on the side of the building, throat bared. Eyes up to the sky. Breathing smoke like he swallowed an active volcano at birth, and hasn’t coughed it out yet. 

His eyes are tracking down new stars, until they’re not. 

‘’s kinda sad, actually. Look at you, all dolled up and pretty, and for what. Thirdwheeling for Tommy and Carol.’ 

Billy cracks his neck, in lieu of. Snapping Harrington’s, probably. ‘Well. I don’t know. You got your hair done, and you prance around looking like a million bucks, and. Here, of all places. We had a date here a year ago, you remember that?’ He sucks his teeth. Harrington’s at boiling point, and Billy’s tasting blood with every breath. ‘And you’re out here. With me. I didn’t know any better, I’d think. You don’t give a rat’s ass about that girl you got waiting for you inside. I’d think none of this is for her. Whadd _ya_ think, Steve?’ 

He hears the thud before he feels the impact. The pain, blooming across his lower back. Harrington’s arm cutting off his air supply. 

They’re hidden in the shadows. Out of sight. His last exhale will belong to Harrington, and no one else. It’s. 

Billy’s okay with that. 

There’s leaving, and there’s belonging. It was always meant for Harrington anyway. 

‘You having fun?’ Harrington’s eyes are catching the neon, pink and blue and bright green. Turning it into blood red, and midnight sky, and ink black. ‘You happy now?’ 

Billy chokes. He’s choking. Strawberry-flavored bile rises up his throat. His blood’s singing, and he wants Harrington’s under his fingernails, and he chokes on every inhale, and. 

He goes lax. Arms limp at his sides. Not. Struggling. Not. Not trying to. Get away. He’s choking. 

‘Are you?’ 

Something shatters on Harrington’s face. Softens enough for Billy to break free. 

He hears Harrington sucking in a breath. He hears his name falling out of Harrington’s mouth, almost like he’s asking, almost. Almost like he’s begging. 

He hears his name, and nothing else. 

He doesn’t turn around. 

* * *

Max is locking lips with her boyfriend when Billy parks in front of the cinema. 

He knows she’s spotted him. He honks the horn. For good measure. Because there’s still something simmering under his skin. Scratching to get out. 

He takes it out on the horn. 

She rolls her eyes, and mumbles something suspiciously similar to _thank fuck we’re not related_ , which. Punches a snort out of Billy. She slides next to him, and fuckin’. Elbows him in the gut to wave at her stupid puppy crush before his baby feeds him dust. 

He revs the engine. Rolls his eyes. Sighs, and gives the kid a two-finger salute. 

Max rolls her eyes. ‘Do you _have_ to be such an asshole, or is that like. Your favorite pastime?’ 

‘That’s a funny way to thank me for covering for you and your boyfriend, Maxine. That what you meant, wasn’t it?’ 

She rolls her eyes. Again. Sheepishly, so. Billy counts it as a win. 

He shoots her a glare before turning back to the road. 

‘ _What_.’ 

‘You know what.’ 

‘I’m not _dumb_.’ She’s playing with a couple of bangle bracelets on her left wrist, red and neon green. They weren’t there three hours ago. A Valentine’s gift from her boyfriend. It’s sickening, and stupid, and. Cute. ‘I know, okay. I’m being careful.’ 

He clutches the wheel. Tight as it gets. 

‘I’m not the one kissing that guy in front of half of Hawkins’ teenage population, Maxine. Neil could’ve been walking by. It’s not just your ass on the line. You need to get that through your head.’ 

‘It’s dumb.’ 

‘It is what it is.’ He takes a deep breath, and thinks of Ely, and Zach, and Cece’s big brown eyes. He thinks of kindness, found in the most unexpected places. He thinks of monsters, two bedrooms over, where they’re not supposed to be. ‘Neil doesn’t want us associating with people like that, and that’s that. You know better than to fight back.’ 

She frowns at him. Lip trembling like she’s two tear streaks away from doing something stupid, like. Asking for a hug, or. Something. 

‘You do,’ she says, voice only a little wobbly. ‘You fight back. And you think his rules are bulshit, too.’ 

He taps a wild rhythm on leather. ‘I do. I think Neil’s a racist piece of trash. But that doesn’t matter.’ He breathes in deep. Wishes he had a smoke between his fingers. Wishes his lungs were full of ash. ‘Max, listen, I. I don’t get a say in that house. It’s Neil’s roof you’re living under, and what he says goes.’ 

‘I know.’ 

‘I wish I could—’ He snaps his mouth shut when she looks up at him. Hopefully. There’s. No point in watering that seed. Hope doesn’t blossom in that house. ‘There’s only so much I can do to cover for you. To protect—protect you. You need to learn to do that yourself. Being careful isn’t enough, Max.’ 

Her chin trembles for a moment longer, and then she. Nods, eyes drier now. One more bitter pill of hard truth to inject into her bloodstream. 

The sooner, the better. 

Billy wishes. He wishes he believed that. 

She reaches out, turns the radio on. She catches Cooper on the third try. She winces, and bites her lip, and. 

She doesn’t change the station. 

Billy thinks. She’s finally thanking him. 

* * *

He drops her off, a couple houses down, in case Neil’s keeping watch on the window. 

Wouldn’t put it past him. 

He winks at her. ‘Don’t wait up.’ 

She scrunches her nose, and opens her mouth to say. Something, except she. Doesn’t, just. Shrugs. Opens the door. Gets out of the car. 

She’s fidgeting again. ‘Billy?’ She waits for him to nod for her to go on, lip caught between her teeth. ‘I’ll do better.’ 

It catches him. Off guard, and that’s his excuse for the sharp inhale he doesn’t kill in his throat. 

‘Go get your beauty sleep, shithead. Boys don’t go for sleep-deprived.’ 

She doesn’t ask what he’s running from tonight, and Billy’s grateful for that. She. Smiles at him, and. 

He’s grateful for that, too. 

* * *

He needs to be near water, so he leaves the car at the end of the track-strewn dirt road leading to the quarry, hidden behind thick trees, and. Walks the rest of the way, until the crunch of sand under his boots turns to the creaking of wet pebbles. 

The sound is muffled by the cars above him, the engines and the laughter and the. Life. Billy gets it, sort of. Life in Hawkins is. Less than, most of the time. It makes sense, that people cling to any excuse they can dig their claws into to. Feel alive, a few days a year. 

It makes sense. 

Couples driving around, and laughing, and being happy. It makes sense. Not in Billy’s world, but. 

No one is down here, though, because even love dust on Valentine’s day can’t turn this place into Cupid’s lair. Nobody wants rocks and dark waters when they can have the stars and heart-shaped chocolate boxes. 

Billy walks until water’s licking leather. Takes a breath. It’s gotten easier, again. Down here, consumed by the darkness. 

He sticks his hands in his pockets. His fingers close around something small, and pointy, and kinda. Sticky. 

The light from above is just enough to make out the green heart. The red letters. 

UR MINE 

It startles a laugh out of him. Kinda manic. Kinda drowned out by the water, and the voices, and the life above. 

He laughs, because Harrington never asks. He laughs, because Harrington just takes, and takes, and takes. 

He laughs, and he wonders if the princess got a yellow heart. He wonders if she got a question. 

The heart drops in the water, and Billy watches as the sugar starts melting away. Dissolving into tiny particles. Eaten away by the water. 

He watches as the heart shrinks, gets smaller and smaller until it’s gone. 

He watches, and he wonders if. One day. Maybe he’ll get to do that. 

If one day. The water will break him back into pieces, too. 

* * *

On Tuesday, he takes a wrong turn. 

Max frowns next to him. ‘Uh. That’s not the way home.’ 

He hums. Refrains from. Rolling his eyes and snapping at her that he did, in fact, know that. 

‘Okay. Uhm. Where’re we going, then?’ 

‘Patience is a foreign concept to you, isn’t it.’ 

She’s huffing indignantly even as he pulls up at an empty lot. Surrounded by trees. Nothing but dirt and emptiness ahead. 

He doesn’t spare her a look when he latches his door open. ‘Get out.’ 

‘Listen, I know you’re mad at me for eating that stupid protein yogurt you love, but—’ 

He scoffs out a laugh, ‘Maxine. Get over here.’ Starts walking clockwise while she goes counter. Looks at her from the wrong side over the hood of his baby and tries to. Convince himself he’s on the right one. 

She shoots him a wary look. ‘Now what?’ 

‘Now,’ he starts, drags out every word because he’s on the wrong side, and he’s entitled to annoy the living fuck outta her, at least, ‘we get back in.’ 

She goes as far as _but you’re on_ — and Billy watches as it falls over her face, slowly. The realization. Wrong and right sides. 

He chews at his cheek to stop his stupid, stubborn mouth. It keeps struggling to. Tilt upwards. 

Max frowns, and looks around at the trees, and the car. Settles on him, face scarred by lines. ‘Why?’ 

He takes a bite out of the air and feels the taste of pine flooding his mouth. Lets his shoulders sag on the exhale. It’s easy, here. Breathing. He’s glad they’re doing it out here. There’s no escape in the confined space of the car. There’s no hiding the tightening of his mouth. 

‘Because Neil drives stick,’ he says, and his voice doesn’t ever break. It. It doesn’t break. 

She mutters, ‘I don’t know what that means,’ and it sounds like. An apology. 

He revels in it, for a second. She doesn’t know, and she. Shouldn’t. Shouldn’t ever know what that means. And then he breathes again, and there’s no salt in the air. Just pine, and dirt, and emptiness, and he knows he has to. 

Just. One more thing he has to break. 

‘Because Neil drives stick, Maxine,’ he tries again, and he hopes he’s handing her the vest instead of bullets. ‘And because. No matter what happens, whether I get in or not—’ 

‘You’re getting in, asshole, ohmy _god_ —’ 

‘—no matter what happens, Max, I. I gotta go.’ He stares down at his hands. Helplessly. Hopes he’s not seeing blood because. It’s just. Not there. ‘I can’t stay. And I make it worse, Neil’s temper, but I didn’t—it was always there. I found it. It’s nothing new. He hates my guts, and it’ll always be bad while I’m around, but. Neil’s like that. He’s always been like that, and he—me leaving won’t change that.’ 

He looks up just in time to watch it settling over her eyes. The same cloud, with the same storm that’s been brewing in his for years. Twists his insides something vile. He hopes. Oh, he. He hopes he’s steeling her to become unbreakable. She just. Needs to do some breaking first. 

He sucks in some more pine before continuing. ‘So what we’re doing is, we’re getting in, and you’re gonna learn how to drive stick because. He drives stick, and every night before going to bed you’re gonna make sure you know where his car keys are, and no matter what. You’re gonna be prepared. Got it?’ 

She blinks at him. Then nods, slowly. Then. Gets in the car. 

He lets out a breath, shaky and frozen and relieved, and. 

Once he’s settled, on. The wrong side, on the wrong seat, in. The wrong fuckin’ town, he takes a piece of paper out of his pocket. Hands it to her. 

‘This,’ he answers her silent question, ‘is Ely’s address. The—the school counselor I told you about. The one who’s helping me get in. Get. Out. Of here. Anything happens, you grab Neil’s keys, and you go find her. You’re welcome there.’ 

‘Does she. Know?’ 

Ely’s look shines behind his eyelids. The way she covered his hand with hers. ‘I haven’t told her anything,’ he says, and it’s not an answer, but. It sort of is, too. 

‘And you’re sure it’s okay to just. Turn up there without any notice?’ 

He nods, because. Yeah. Yeah, it really is. He understands her disbelief. Reluctance to accept. Unconditional kindness. He. He gets it. He’s still working on it, himself. 

‘Yeah,’ he says. Ruffles her hair a bit, because he’s still on the wrong side, and he’s entitled to it. Big brother privileges. Unfamiliar shit like that. ‘I’ll drive us by her place first thing tomorrow morning on our way to school. Show you how to get there from. Home.’ 

She swats at his hands. Nods, almost. Almost throws a smile in there, too. Almost. ‘Yeah. Yeah, okay.’ 

Yeah, he thinks. Okay. It’ll be okay. 

* * *

On the second Thursday of March, he gets the letter. 

He’s been taking weekly drives up to Indy to check the mailbox all through February, even though Ely said letters aren’t sent out until well into March. Billy simply. Shrugged and retorted that he’d keep driving two towns over in March, too. 

It’d made her laugh, so. That was nice. 

Neil comes home later every Thursday, and Billy’s been taking advantage of that. Everything’s been going. So good. He doesn’t need anything screwing it up, so. 

On the second Thursday of March, he turns the key, and opens the metal door, and. 

The world goes kinda hazy around the edges. 

There’s a shrill buzzing in his ears, and a tingling all over his body, and a slim white envelope resting inside the box. 

He takes it out. Slowly. Turns it around in his hands. It’s good quality, the paper. He doesn’t know if it’s meant to be consoling, or. Congratulatory. 

He stares at it. Walks to his car. Slides it into the glove compartment. 

He starts driving. 

* * *

A week goes by. He drops Max home from school. Doesn’t stop the car until asphalt turns to dirt and his back’s facing that sign. 

WELCOME TO HAWKINS 

He pulls to the side of the road. Right before the darkness of the woods spills into the sunlight. Eats it up. He stops, right before that line. Right before the darkness eats him up, too. 

He takes the envelope out. Turns it up, and down, and up again. Doesn’t look at the sign, not. Not once. 

He puts the letter back in the glove box. Unopened. 

A week goes by. 

* * *

Two days before turning eighteen, he opens it. 

He’s. Grateful for the angry sound of the paper ripping. It’s loud enough to mask the trembling of his fingers. Of his breathing. 

There’s only one sheet of paper inside, folded into thirds. 

He spreads it out on his lap. Flattens it with his palms. Doesn’t—doesn’t look at it, until. 

He does. 

He looks at it. Reads the whole thing, and then reads it once more. 

He slides the paper back into the envelope. Places it back into the glove box. 

He starts driving. 

* * *

It’s the sound that draws his attention. 

It’s not. Unfamiliar, just. 

It’s usually a package deal, tied with a wedding ring on a middle finger, and a buzzing in Billy’s ears, and the taste of blood in his mouth. 

He swallows, and it’s April, almost, and nothing but cold runs down his throat. 

He’s on a grocery run on Neil’s behest. Frost is numbing his fingers where they’re wrapped around a glass bottle. He knows the steps. Buy the milk. Get back in the car. Drive. Home. 

Except the sound’s familiar, and the name comes, next, painfully, achingly familiar, too, and it doesn’t come out of Billy’s mouth, and that. 

That’s just wrong. 

The parking lot asphalt is painted white. The bottle crashes on the ground, and milk splashes everywhere, and. 

None of that matters. 

He doesn’t know he’s running until his legs are burning, and his breathing’s loud, and forced, and not instinctive anymore, and Harrington— 

Harrington’s on the ground, and his hand’s covering his nose, and there’s. So much noise, too much, and it’s. It’s impossible, but Billy. Hears it. He hears it when a drop of blood runs down, down, and kisses the asphalt. 

Billy crowned him in that alley, and Harrington breathed life into him, and everything is wrong. 

Byers, looming over Harrington, every muscle in his body poised like he’s fixing to do something stupid, like run, or. Get Harrington’s blood on him. Again. That’s wrong. 

The milk on the ground, that’s wrong too, and Harrington’s blood, dripping. Dripping, that’s. That’s blasphemous. 

And then. Harrington’s eyes find him, and he smiles, smiles with his eyes and his split lip and his blood, dripping on the ground, smiles. Like he’s been waiting for Billy, for so long, like. He’s been waiting all his life, and now he’s found him, and. 

Billy doesn’t have a choice, not. Not really. 

The surprise on Byers’ face for the split second before Billy’s fist puts him back in his place is almost. Almost more satisfying than the fall. The crash. 

Except Billy isn’t really looking at him. 

He’s not looking at Byers, falling, and he’s not looking at Tommy hollering, cheering Billy on. Billy’s fist meets Byers, but his eyes cut the princess in two, in four, in ten million pieces. 

She’s standing just to the right, just fuckin’. Observing, until Byers falls. That’s when she lets out a shriek. It’s shrill, piercing, drowning out all the rest, drowning out. Everything else, except the blood in Billy’s veins. Pumping. Boiling. Spilling over. 

‘I warned you,’ he snarls, and he’s got Byers’ blood on his knuckles, but his teeth are biting into her flesh. ‘I warned you not to hurt him.’ 

Behind him, Tommy chokes on. Absolutely nothing. ‘You _knew_?’ 

‘Everyone knew, babe, get with the times,’ Carol sighs, and Billy. Kinda really. Wants to hug her. 

Except the princess is slithering an arm around Byers’ waist, helps him get back up. Shoots Billy venom and death in her glare. Saves some poison for Harrington, still lying on the ground, still. Looking at Billy. Smiling. 

‘He’s all yours now,’ she gnarls, like Harrington was ever hers. 

Like. Like he’s ever been Billy’s. 

He can pretend, for now, not even bothering to wait until they’re out of sight. He’s by Harrington’s side on his next breath. Kneels down where asphalt grey’s turning blood red. 

Billy looks at the small puddle of blood and decides. One punch wasn’t enough. Byers’ sin deserves. More. Open wounds, and broken bones, and spilt blood, and he’s. Itching to go pay back the debt, except. 

‘Hey, heartbreaker.’ Harrington’s fingers curl around Billy’s wrist. His smile is bloody, and his hair’s a mess, and he’s looking up at Billy with something. Almost like—‘You found me.’ 

Billy cups his face, and brushes messy locks away, and he. Wants. Aches for him, so much he thinks the earth is shaking with it. Doesn’t even register Tommy and Carol still. Standing there. Watching. 

‘Yeah,’ he breathes, raspy like he was the one who took the punch, and clears his throat. Slides his hand higher, fingers settling on the back of Harrington’s head. Tracing for blood. Coming up dry, and Billy’s. Grateful. He’s so grateful. He hides it behind a breathless kinda laugh. ‘You doin’ okay?’ 

Harrington sits up. There’s no hiding it, not when there’s only a sliver of oxygen between them. Billy doesn’t really have a use for it, anyway, not. Not with Harrington tapping his wrist in sync with Billy’s heartbeat. 

There’s no hiding the relief in Harrington’s eyes, because he’s got a clean shot, and Billy just handed him a rifle. 

‘Better now,’ he whispers, and fires his smile, his. Promise of slaughter. He pushes back against Billy’s fingers, still tugging at his hair, eyelashes fluttering for a moment before he seeks out Billy’s eyes again. ‘Take me home?’ he asks, sun rays laying claim on him, bathing him in gold. Dulling his edges, too. 

Like all fallen kings, alight with sunlight. Drenched in blood. 

Except he blinks, and sways a bit, and Billy has. Has to look away from the wave of sadness crashing into Harrington’s shore. 

He turns to Carol, half-invested in the dethroning of the King, half-pawing at Tommy’s arm to get him moving. 

She purses her lips at him, and Billy huffs, ‘Go. I got this.’ 

Surprisingly, she. Obeys. Pulls until Tommy gives in, until they’re close enough to pay their respects to the fallen, Carol with a hand on Harrington’s head, Tommy with a frown, a smile, a _see you Monday at school, man_. 

They wither away, become two lines in the distance, and then one, and fingertips tilt his head until he’s dragged back under. 

‘I keep asking you to do that,’ Harrington says, bloody and quiet and distraught, shakes his head, once, so. So sad, ‘You never do.’ 

Billy doesn’t get it, until Harrington’s standing up, first, and lending Billy a hand, like one of them ate knuckles for lunch, and it wasn’t Harrington. 

He doesn’t get it, and then Harrington tugs, ‘C’mon, heartbreaker,’ kinda sounds like he’s drowning in his own ocean, and Billy thinks he’s been trying, this whole time. To pull Billy in, too. To keep him underwater, with him, forever. 

He walks them to the Camaro, thinking _I love you_ , thinking _you’re not home_ , thinking. 

If they were drowning, he’d save Harrington first. 

* * *

The ice pack is burning his fingertips. 

He brings it up to Harrington’s face, left side all blue and sore and— 

It scratches a hiss out of Harrington, and a breathless laugh out of Billy. 

‘Serves you right for bleeding all over my upholstery.’ 

Harrington. Pouts at him. Somehow. Finds a way to work a playful smirk in there, too. ‘It’s leather, baby. It doesn’t stain.’ 

They both. Stop, at that word. Hold their breaths, and Billy could. Could pierce it, the silence, _yeah, it fuckin’ does, of course blood stains_ , but. 

He hasn’t been _baby_ in a while, and it drops, rock-like, settles deep in his gut. Kinda makes the blood stain not. Not so important. Kinda makes something ramble between his ribs, makes him wanna be selfish. Just this once. 

Maybe he can drive his baby to the ocean with Harrington’s blood still on it. Maybe. He gets to keep a tiny piece of him. Just this once. 

‘You were right.’ Half of Harrington’s mouth is making out with the ice pack, and Billy snaps his head up at the sound of his voice, muffled and garbled. He’d been assessing the damage on his jaw, a second ago, and then Harrington locks their eyes together, looks. Looks at Billy, and there’s. Something new there, or. Not. Not new, just maybe. Unearthed, and Billy thinks maybe he’s treating wounds on the wrong body. 

He hums, inquisitively, applies more pressure to the ice. To. Harrington’s cheek. By proxy, but. 

He’ll take what he can get. 

Harrington lowers his eyes. Lifts them up again. ‘I should’ve broken up with her a long time ago.’ 

He’s good to hold the ice pack on his own, Billy decides. Lets his arms fall to his sides. Locks his jaw something vicious when he spits out, ‘Because she’s a cheating bitch?’ 

It’s not a trap, not. Not really, but they both hear the creaking of the rusty metal, and they both see the teeth, and Harrington looks down at his leg like he’s half-certain he’ll find it gnawed bloody. Like he’s looking for the bone, except. 

He takes a step to the side, and dodges the massacre. 

He lifts his hand, and cups Billy’s face in his palm, and. Shakes his head. Whispers, ‘No.’ Sharpens this one little word. Wields it like a knife in his hands. 

Billy’s sliced open. 

The woods stretch out for miles. There’s bound to be a clearing, remote and hidden and soundproof, where screams don’t carry over to the town. To anyone’s ears. Billy vows to track it down, that place. Bury his voice in it. Maybe leave it there. His voice for a few drops of blood, soaked up into the leather. A reminder, of. What he never had. 

Then Harrington sways, and Billy catches him, like always, thinks. That’s the game, like. Like always, but. 

There’s a hot breath on his collarbone, and a face tucked in the hollow of his neck, and lips raising hell and goosebumps on his skin and something. Something’s different this time. 

‘Don’t—’ It takes. An ocean of willpower, and a letter in his car, and the memory of home. ‘Steve. Don’t do that.’ 

He tugs until Harrington’s not in his space, not anymore, and it’s not. It’s not fair. Harrington’s got a kiss the shape of Byers’ knuckles on his face, and a crusted blood stripe above his lip, and he didn’t wince in pain, not once, not through. Any of that, but. 

There’s a flicker in his eyes, and a twisted curl on his mouth, and Billy knows enough to call it hurt before it. Melts. Into a sneer. 

Billy looks away. ‘He got you good,’ he mutters, reaching for a dry towel to wrap around another ice pack. Cold already seeping through. From the ice, or. From them, he’s not sure. 

‘Yeah,’ Harrington sends a bitter laugh to the ceiling, ‘he doesn’t look like it, but he packs a mean punch. That fuckin’ asshole. Who the fuck does he think he is?’ 

‘He barely grazed you and you dropped like a leaf, Steve.’ 

‘I got weak ankles.’ 

It’s been so long, since he’s given Harrington a smile, a genuine smile. Worth it for the grin Harrington flashes back. Soft around the edges, sharp thawed to smooth. Billy never knew he had a sandpaper smile. 

‘What you got is a shitty battle stance. You gotta learn how to fight one of these days.’ 

Harrington shakes his head to get his hair out of his eyes, maybe get the hurt, still lingering, out of them, too. Winces when it tugs at his jaw. Still sore from another man’s touch. 

Billy reaches out before the rational half of his brain takes over. Brushes the mess back. 

‘Nah, kinda like it.’ They’re both ignoring how shaky Harrington sounds. How. Unraveled. ‘Think I’ll just keep you as my bodyguard. I like it when you save me.’ 

The world kinda. Stops, right then, stops turning, crashes. Around them, and Billy takes a breath, and then another, and. He’s out of time. 

‘Won’t always be around to do that.’ 

Harrington gives him a smile, except it looks. Nothing like a smile. ‘What’s that mean, baby?’ 

Billy’s. Out of time. ‘Got into—’ Everything around him is white marble. Everything except ten red dots. Ten bloody fingerprints, left on the counter, and Billy clings onto that. The only sign of life, or. The threat of its loss in a lifeless town. He starts again. ‘Got into college. Back home. ‘m driving back the moment school’s over.’ 

Harrington shakes his head. Once. ‘No.’ 

‘Steve. C’mon, you knew. You knew it was gonna happen.’ 

‘No.’ The bleeding starts all over again. A trail of blood runs from his nostrils down his mouth, and Harrington snarls, and swallows back his own blood, and. ‘ _No_.’ 

Billy sees red so fast he thinks he’ll faint. Thinks he’ll die. Thinks. He’s the guy with the gun now. 

‘’m not asking, Steve. I’m not. Fuckin’ asking you if I can go. I’m telling you. I’m leaving.’ 

Fingers curl around his hips. Squeeze. Vice-like. Billy’d be dead for sure, if they. Trailed higher. ‘I don’t _want_ you to.’ 

That. That one draws a hiss out of him. He pulls back, walks backwards until the kitchen island’s digging into his back. Cuts his spine in two. 

He clutches at the drawers. They’re not lifesavers, not by a long mile, but drowning men need all the help they can get. The brass handle is smooth in his palm, and cold, and. Grounding. 

Red turns washed out pink, until he can see clear again. 

‘You don’t—get a fuckin’ say, actually. And you don’t get to ask that of me. You know, god.’ He rubs at the bridge of his nose. Scratches the beginning of two angry lines, too. Grounding. ‘Steve, you know what I go back to every day. You don’t get to ask me to stay.’ 

Harrington lowers the ice pack from his face, slowly. All the blood is wiped off, now, and there’s. Nothing there. 

There’s nothing there. All life is wiped off, too. He’s a mask. 

There’s nothing in his voice, either, when he. 

He looks up, with his lifeless eyes, and his empty smile. When he says, flat and monotone and. Far, far away, ‘Get out.’ 

Billy’s had two decades worth of learning, the hard way, so. He’s good at instructions. Doesn’t need to be told twice. 

Can’t. Can’t fuckin’ wait until he’s out of here, before Harrington’s blood is found under two sets of fingernails. 

It’s still there, though. That flame, licking away at his insides. He looks at Harrington, and the flame soars, and Billy. 

He eats up the space between them, traces a ghost of a touch along the red line under Harrington’s jaw. He fights against the magnet pulling him in. He doesn’t touch, because it’s April, almost, and the letter in his car says Billy— 

He’s out of time. 

‘Pour some disinfectant over it,’ he says, instead, and hopes. He hopes. Hopes Harrington understands. ‘Don’t let it fester.’ 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey babes i'm so sorry for the wait uh. just an update? i'm probably slicing the last chapter in two, because i don't want it to be a monster, but i'll try to get all of it done before posting, so. hopefully this is the last time i keep you waiting this long 💗
> 
> research for this chapter was me flipping through flickr looking for the perfect conversation heart pic so. if anyone's interested [here's what billy gets](https://live.staticflickr.com/2764/4345152906_63631364e8_c.jpg) and [what he thinks nancy does](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/d9/17/bf/d917bfdd62b1e947c5bfef79db597962.jpg). yeah im a writer, very serious, very professional
> 
> as always, im on [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/), i love you all, come scream with/at me


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh. this is 10k. of mostly angst? so. yeah

On Sunday, Billy walks out of his room, and that’s his first mistake. 

Billy forgot about it, is the thing, but. 

Neil. He never, ever forgets. 

So Billy walks out of his room, and that’s his first mistake, and doesn’t think too much about the heavy silence, and that’s his second, and. 

It’s Sunday. Susan should be up and making pancakes, and Max should be sipping her cocoa, because that’s how Sunday mornings go for The Perfect Family, but. Billy steps into the kitchen, and doesn’t notice the silence, and that’s. One mistake too many. 

The letter’s making him reckless, because that’s what taking a bite out of freedom does, and _get out_ is still ringing in his ears, takes him by the hand over that invisible line, right into careless territory. 

Billy’s careless, until he’s not. 

He’s careless for the three seconds it takes for the sizzling to sink in. For the pain, because that’s what being shoved against the open stove does. Billy’s not in the mood to argue with the laws of physics. 

He’s kinda. Busy trying not to burn alive. 

He half-screams, half-chokes out, ‘ _Dad_.’ Like that’s ever gotten him anything. 

Neil eases back a fraction. Nothing on him betrays that he’s in the process of cooking his only son alive. There are crumbs scattered along his mustache, and he almost looks. Annoyed, that Billy. Disturbed his peaceful Sunday morning. 

‘Tell me something,’ he says, ‘you’re not that much of an idiot to take me for a fool, are you? Are you, Billy?’ 

It’s a trap. Billy knows it’s a trap. He set it off the moment he opened his door. 

He shakes his head. ‘No, sir.’ 

Neil hums. Then pushes, gets Billy hissing. The kitchen smells like burning flesh. ‘Didn’t think so. Thing is, Billy. I distinctly remember sending you to the store yesterday, to get milk. You remember that, too, right?’ He shakes a nod out of Billy. ‘You remember getting in your car, and going to get the milk, like I asked you.’ 

Billy rasps out, ‘Yes, sir,’ and wonders how much will be left when Neil’s done with him. He’ll claw his way back to the ocean with half his limbs if he has to. 

‘Except there’s no milk on my table today, Billy. You don’t see any, do you?’ He shakes his head in sync with Billy, face a mask of regretful inevitability. Like he’s sorry Billy’s. Making him do this. ‘Hm, no. And do you wanna hear the funniest thing? I found a receipt in your coat. For a bottle of milk. How do you explain that? You have your receipt, but I don’t see any milk. Isn’t that hilarious?’ 

‘I broke it.’ 

‘What was that?’ 

‘I.’ He coughs to clear his throat. Tastes cooked meat when he swallows. ‘I broke it. Sir. I did what you asked. Got a bottle. It. Fell. I broke it.’ 

‘I asked you to bring the bottle home, Billy. Why didn’t you buy another one?’ 

‘Didn’t have enough. For a second one. You didn’t find any change when you searched my coat, did you?’ 

Neil gives him a smile. Poison-infused. 

Billy doesn’t ever see it coming. He feels the pain taking over the left side of his face, matching the burning on his back. It takes licking his lips to taste the blood. He doesn’t feel it running down his nose. It doesn’t. Register, through the rest of it. The rest of. The pain. 

Neil’s arm’s still suspended in the air between them. Ready to strike back down. ‘Don’t ever talk back to me like that again.’ 

Billy nods, spits out blood, spits out one more _yes, sir_. Collapses to the ground. 

There’s a beat of silence, like Neil’s contemplating drawing more blood out of him. Then he scoffs, and he’s almost out of the kitchen, and. 

‘Tread carefully, Billy. You’re eighteen now. I’m doing you a favor keeping you under my roof.’ 

Billy thinks of the letter, and getting out, and never looking back, and. 

He switches the oven off. 

* * *

Unsurprisingly, Max. Doesn’t knock. 

She ambles in with all the grace of a group of elephants on acid, and she doesn’t knock, and. 

Billy doesn’t have time to cover up. 

He’s sitting ramrod straight, back facing the mirror. A roll of gauze in one hand. Soothing balm in the other. He hisses his way through pulling on a shirt. Not. Not fast enough. 

Not nearly fast enough. 

Max is already saying, ‘Not supposed to rub salve on a burn, dumbass,’ and, ‘Don’t cover it with that, ohmy _god_ ,’ and Billy kinda. 

Doesn’t really have time to raise any objections, to. Any of that, before she’s out the door. 

Before she’s back again. With a water basin. Filled with. Presumably. Water. A water basin, and. A washcloth. 

She closes the door behind her. Stands there, for a second. Like she’s not so sure, now. Of how far she’s allowed. To go. Except Max is a fucking hurricane, and even more stupid than he is, and two times as reckless. 

She crosses his room. Flops down on the bed next to him. 

‘Max—’ 

‘Suck in a deep breath.’ 

He does without a protest. Still hisses like a bitch the moment water licks at the burnt skin. 

‘Does it hurt?’ Max’s voice is quiet, and like. Billy can’t see her, but. He knows she follows it with a wince. 

‘Nah, having a grand time here.’ 

She pinches the meat of his arm, which. Should hurt, would, under. Any other circumstances, but Billy can’t currently feel anything other than the white flash of pain on his lower back. 

Instead of making him apologize, sniffing blood and going for the final strike, like. Any other normal being would, like. Like Billy would, ‘He’s not home,’ she mutters, ‘no need to be quiet.’ 

She says _he’s not home_ , and. 

That’s how it’s supposed to go, he remembers. Bracing himself for gentleness. Expecting it, and. 

Receiving. Gentleness. Not everyone pounces at the sight of blood. Billy has to. Remember that. 

He doesn’t really. Acknowledge her, other than. Sagging, a bit. Against her. Goes, when she moves him, this way and that, and thinks no fourteen year old should be so numb at the sight of blood, and doesn’t say it out loud. 

A second of silence goes by. He feels a finger tracing a line, right above the tender flesh. 

‘There’s another one, right here,’ she whispers, ‘looks. Older.’ 

‘Yeah. Gotten plenty of these over the years.’ 

There’s a mean sounding sniffle behind him. ‘I knew. When he. He told us to go to the store, buy snacks for tonight. Gave us money, too. Said we could get anything we want.’ Another sniffle, somehow. Angrier. ‘I knew we shouldn’t have gone.’ 

‘Max.’ He whips around. She’s staring at her hands with wet eyes. No one should be used to the sight of blood. ‘Don’t do this, okay? ‘s not your fault. Not Sue’s either.’ 

‘She should’ve _done_ something—’ 

‘Yeah.’ He nods. He nods, because. ‘Yeah, maybe she should’ve. But I’m not hers, Max. You can’t blame her for wanting to keep you safe no matter what.’ 

‘No matter you.’ 

His back hurts like all nine circles of hell. Feels like a chainsaw’s ripping it to shreds. He pushes her off the bed, ‘That doesn’t make any sense, peabrain,’ and she stares at him from the floor, startled for all of three seconds before she bursts laughing. It’s. Contagious, gets him laughing, too. His back doesn’t hurt so much anymore. 

She kinda tries to yelp, kinda tries to call him something mean and completely uncalled for, except she’s struggling to do all that around the heel he shoves in her face, so. 

Maybe not so uncalled for. 

‘I can take care of myself just fine, Maxine.’ 

She scoffs. Uncalled for. ‘Yeah, okay, that’s like. _So_ not true it’s not even funny.’ She throws two raised brows his way. ‘You were literally about to wear your yucky shirt over an open wound. Dumbass.’ 

‘A momentary lapse of judgement.’ 

‘Or,’ she drawls, nudges his knee with her elbow, ‘you’re just plain dumb. And we’re not related, so I can like. Totally say that.’ 

Hand over heart, ‘I’m wounded. Truly,’ except. 

It gets her glancing at his side, angry red and stinging and. Cooked, and that wasn’t. What he was going for, not. Not even close. 

It’s like a. A storm. Settles over her. Her face goes dark. Her voice, too. 

‘Yeah,’ she breathes, ‘you. You need to get out,’ and if Billy didn’t know any better, he. He’d call it begging. 

He stares at her. Sighs. Runs a nervous hand through his hair. 

Then he stands up. Slowly. Walks towards his desk. 

Slowly. 

He crouches down, takes the top drawer out. Fumbles around with his whole arm shoved in the open mouth. 

‘Are you like. Having a stroke or?’ 

His fingers close around paper and he turns to her. Kinda. Maybe. Sort of. Lets out a small laugh. Triumphant. Will spend the rest of his life denying it. 

He hands it to her, wordlessly. Watches as her eyes go big, big, bigger. Jumping over the words until she’s got the answer to her silent question. Then she looks up. Asking him, too. To. Make sure. 

Billy nods. Rubs the back of his neck. Smiles—smiles at her. ‘Yeah.’ 

‘When are you. Y’know. Going?’ 

‘Soon as I graduate. I’m outta here. And. Max. Neil can’t know a thing, get it?’ 

She rolls her eyes, but she’s also kinda. Already jumping on. His bed. Wrapping her arms around him. Squeezing. 

‘Can’t wait to turn this room into a walk-in closet,’ she mumbles wetly against his shoulder, and Billy hugs back, and lets the guilt wash over him, because. 

She should’ve been the first to know. 

* * *

He’s not at school on Monday. 

Not on Tuesday, either, and Billy knows. Because he looks, and keeps looking, and his eyes never find him. 

He spends two days struggling for breath. 

He doesn’t see him on Wednesday, either, but when Billy walks in the gym, Harrington’s laughing with Robbie Galindo about. Something. Looking worse than Billy, sore jaw and burnt skin and all. 

Billy stares. Harrington. Doesn’t stare back. 

He makes up an excuse for his back. Workout gone wrong. Coach doesn’t ask. No one ever does. 

He spends an hour on the bench. Watching Harrington. He looks. Like a fallen angel, skin yellow and sweaty and waxy. Eyes sunken. Hollow. Using the last few flights he’s got on his wings to soar over the court. Score two-pointers, three-pointers, one after the other. 

When he throws his head back and roars, it sounds hollow too. 

He doesn’t look at Billy, not. Not once. 

Billy never takes his eyes off him. 

When practice is over, he doesn’t hang back to see if the ethereal sheen will wash off under the water, or. If Harrington’s gone statue. 

He takes off, and doesn’t know where his feet are taking him until he’s fixing the collar of his shirt and knocking on the door. 

Ely’s still here. Of course she is. 

‘Hey,’ he says, does a dumb little wave on the air, ‘invite me over tonight.’ 

She says it back, ‘Hey,’ and her eyes scan over his face, and she’s looking at the shadow on the left side of his face, that doesn’t rely on light to be there. ‘You’re always welcome, honey, you know that.’ 

He says, ‘Yeah,’ and means _thank you_ , and says, ‘Just. I kinda need you to invite me tonight. Special occasion,’ and means _please_. 

And means _thank you_ , and _no one asks_ , and. _You did_. 

She’s still staring at the bruise on his face. Worry written all over her lips. ‘Something happen?’ She mirrors him when he shakes his head, looks kinda wild for a second, hair escaping from her ponytail, haloing something crazy around her. 

She’s worried about him, and Billy doesn’t know what to do with that. 

‘Should you call home? Tell ‘em you’ll be late?’ 

She’s worried about him, and it settles right between Billy’s eyes, that worry. Stings, a bit. Waters the corner of his eyes, and that stings, too. 

‘No,’ he says, ‘It’s fine,’ and means _Neil’s out of town_ , and means _today’s safe_. 

She goes over his face, one more time, and opens her mouth like she’s about to. Say something, and closes it. Opens it again, ‘Well I still got about half an hour to go here, but you go ahead. Zach will let you in and Cece’s gonna be thrilled to have you alone for a while.’ 

‘You sure?’ 

She nods, and waves him off with a smile. Calls him just before he’s out the door. 

‘Billy? Are _you_ sure you’re okay?’ 

He returns her smile, and it doesn’t take much effort, or. Any at all. He just. Smiles. 

* * *

It’s almost four, so Billy doesn’t deem it worthy to be compulsively aware of his surroundings, and. His surroundings sneak up on him. 

He’s walking towards the exit, and then he turns a corner, and he’s not walking anymore. 

Max’d said something about unstoppable forces meeting immovable objects, but Harrington’s suddenly right there, the way everything inevitable happens, all at once, and pain’s flashing through Billy’s shoulders from the force of the collision, and. 

He’s not sure what Newton had to say about two unstoppable forces. 

He thinks maybe. He’s got the one-up on him. 

They. They both stop. Stand there. They’re both taken aback, here, and that’s a shift of balance, and Billy doesn’t know what to do with that. 

Harrington’s scent climbs up his nostrils, coats them with something painful and familiar and. Lost, and there are droplets of water dripping from the edges of Harrington’s hair, soaking his polo, so he. He must’ve showered, but the glow is still there. 

He still looks like a statue. He still looks like an angel. Something holy, that hasn’t been worshipped in centuries. 

Billy wonders, for a second. If no one prays to a god, is it still there? 

Harrington breathes out something shaky, cuts Billy’s thoughts in half, _maybe he wasn’t holy before I made him_ , cuts Billy’s breath in half, too. 

It’s the ghost of his fingertips, more than an actual touch, tracing an invisible line along Billy’s face. Over the shadow on it. Harrington never. Presses them, never actually. Touches Billy. 

He taps a finger on his own jaw, where Billy can still make out the shape of someone else’s mark. Scoffs out a laugh, and it sounds as hollow as every breath he’s taken so far. 

He purrs, ‘They’ll think we did that to each other,’ and laughs, like it’s their own inside joke, and never looks at Billy, not. Not really, and. 

Something’s gleaming under his shirt as he walks around Billy, and then he’s gone, and Billy finds _unstoppable_ doesn’t last for long. 

* * *

Cece doesn’t get it at first, because it’s just a piece of paper and that. Doesn’t really mean a lot to four year olds, which means Billy has to explain it to her, and. 

Ely’s already trying to hide her sniffles behind her hands and doing a miserable job about it. Billy doesn’t think he can handle any more tears, and Cece’s covered in Crayola this time, so. 

He can see it from miles away. It’s not gonna end well. 

The house smells like home-made food and. Home, just. Home, and when he sits on the floor next to her, legs stretched out under the coffee table and back against the couch, it. 

It hits him, right then, that this is his spot. He doesn’t have a spot in Neil’s house. He’s got one, here, a spot he chose for its strategic proximity to the nearest exit, and then. It became his, somehow, and the only exit he’s ever used is the door. Reluctantly. 

Cece’s blinking at him, with her eyes bigger than her face, and Billy figures he’s got her attention for another. Four, maybe five seconds. 

‘You like dolphins, right?’ She nods with her entire tiny body. Makes him smile like he hasn’t known the shape a wedding ring leaves on his cheek since he was seven. ‘You know where they live?’ 

She’s holding a magenta Crayola. Very threateningly. Eyeing his letter. His. Acceptance letter like she’s one very short attention span away from turning it Pollock. 

He folds it back into his pocket. 

‘Ocean,’ she says, frowning at her lost chance. 

He nods in agreement. He’s maybe. A tiny bit proud. ‘The ocean. You ever been there?’ 

Predictably, she searches for the answer in Ely. Who laughs. Wetly. And sniffles. Even more wetly. And shakes her head. 

So. Cece shakes her head, too. 

‘Well, see,’ he says, ‘that’s where I came from.’ 

She blinks at him. Her eyes play a table tennis match between him and her mom. Then she says, very slowly, because he’s apparently not getting something very obvious here, ‘I came from mom.’ 

Which. Yeah, okay. That’s fair. And. Technically. Correct. Biologically. 

And he almost laughs, except she ends it with a sucker punch. 

‘You have. Your own mom. Right?’ 

He says, ‘Yeah,’ and it’s kinda brittle, so he tries again. ‘Yeah, I came from my mom, too. I mean. After that. I used to live near the ocean. Where the dolphins are.’ 

That effectively derails her attention from. From people, and having them, and. Not. Having them. 

‘You talked to a dolphin?’ Her voice is bursting with awe. Like. There are actual fireworks going off in her eyes. It’s. It’s cute. 

‘Sure. Used to talk to them all the time.’ His knees draw close to his body of their own accord, and he just. Wraps his arms around them. It’s not a hug. It’s. The best he can do. ‘And I miss that, see. So. I’m going back.’ 

She says, _oh_ , and drops her crayon, makes a mess on her drawing, and her mouth’s kinda trembling. ‘We got deer here. And squirrels, and—’ Turns to Ely, ‘Orange?’ 

‘Foxes.’ 

‘Yep, we got foxes,’ she says to him, four years old and so. So unwavering. ‘You can talk to them.’ She pulls back when he reaches out to play with one of her braids. Presses on. ‘Can’t you?’ 

It’s a tight race, so far. Three for two. Ely hasn’t stopped crying, and calling him _honey_ , and mumbling about _deserving_ , and _finally_ and _freedom_. That’s one. 

Zach hugged him, so tight Billy was genuinely scared for a second. That he wouldn’t make it to the ocean with any breath left in his lungs, and then strutted to the kitchen, and hasn’t come out since, because. Something about _feast_ and _celebrate_ , so. That’s two. 

Max—she already bought him his ticket once. She’d do it again, in a second. Billy knows that. That’s three. 

Three against Harrington, so far. And Cece, except out of the two of them one. Knows, and Billy would bet an arm, maybe. Two, that Cece would turn it four-to-one if she knew, too. 

Leaving shouldn’t be so hard. 

Everything. Else’s been a fight. Leaving shouldn’t be one, too. 

‘I could,’ he says, this side of begging, ‘but. You’d miss your mom if you were away for long, wouldn’t you? I—I miss home.’ 

He lays it out there quietly, that last part. There’s guilt laced around it, and Billy wants to carve it out with Zach’s kitchen knife. Cut all the guilt out of him. 

Maybe. It’ll get better. Back home. Far—far away. 

‘’sides,’ he says, steadier now, ‘the ocean’s almost as pretty as you. And I know a few dolphins who’d be thrilled to meet you. Some starfish, too.’ 

‘Okay,’ she says, after a moment of looking at him, still looking kinda sad, and small, ‘you can go.’ 

It’s four to one now. 

* * *

Neil’s still out when he comes back, so Billy takes his time to check his things, empty his coat pockets. Put the letter back in its hiding place. Between the drawers. His ticket to freedom, locked away in the dark. 

He’ll find it funny, when he’s miles away and tasting salt in the air. 

He’s still one piece of paper too heavy, and when he takes his hand out of his left pocket, his fingers come out sticky with something yellow. 

He unfolds it once, and then twice, and. 

He stares at the dolphin smiling back at him. Yellow fins and blue eyes and purple starfish dancing around it. 

He stares at it, and slides it into Calc, and hides it in his backpack. 

It’ll look good inside his locker. At least. Until he can hang it in a wall near the ocean. 

Maybe. It’ll scare the guilt away. 

* * *

When he tells Tommy and Carol she. She squeaks, a bit, and leaves like. Half a lipstick tube on his cheek, and she’s loud until she’s not, until. She’s lowering her voice, even though Tommy’s right there, and he knows anyway, knew. 

Maybe before Billy did. 

‘How’d he take it?’ 

And Billy smiles, a rueful, dissonant thing, because she doesn’t even need to ask, if. 

If Billy told him first. 

He’s six to one, and it doesn’t feel half as good as he thought it would. 

* * *

Home is two thousand miles and six weeks away when his window slides open. 

Warmth curves around Billy’s back. An arm grows around his waist. 

He twists under it. Turns around. The dark’s only just settled over the world, and Billy can’t make out the details. 

He doesn’t need to, anyway. He could find him anywhere. Like a dog, attuned to a scent. 

Harrington smells like he’s been marinating himself in cooking wine for hours. Maybe weeks. Skin soft and pliant for Billy to pull back. Cook him alive. 

He could light a match. Set them both on fire. He. He could— 

Harrington never opens his eyes. Maybe he drove here like that. Or. Walked all the way from entitled to doomed. With his eyes closed. 

He grunts, softly, when Billy whispers his name. 

Billy tries again. ‘Steve. You know where you are?’ 

Harrington lets out a hum. Makes it sound like _w’you_. 

Something sorta explodes in Billy. Sends sparks crackling at the tips of his fingers. He shouldn’t. He shouldn’t, he— 

Harrington sighs against the palm brushing hair away from his face. It’s sweaty. Sticks to his forehead. Tendrils that get tangled around Billy’s fingers and refuse to let go. 

‘You need to sleep.’ 

‘Hmmknow.’ 

The chuckle Billy breathes out settles on Harrington’s cheeks. He whines out a low thing when Billy tugs at his hair. Then pushes back against it. 

‘So why are you here?’ 

Billy’s got the shape of Harrington’s eyes, and his mouth, and that line between his brows, scratched in his memory like an Etch-a-Sketch he can’t shake clean no—no matter what. 

It’s dark. He knows Harrington’s frowning at him. The slant of his brows means worry under Billy’s fingers. 

‘W’you,’ Harrington slurs again, frown digging deeper and deeper, ‘needt’sleepw’you.’ Then the light shifts in the room, and Harrington sucks in a breath. Looks pained, doing his best to open his eyes. Must be. Painful. After keeping them sewn shut for so long. ‘Not. Wi’you, just. Next. T’you. W’you.’ 

The light gets snuffed out. Billy blacks out for three seconds. 

‘Steve—’ 

‘Can’t. Cansleep.’ Harrington’s looking at him, now. Eyes glazed over. Unfocused. He’s looking at Billy. ‘W’outyou. Cansleep. Tried. Weeks.’ He lifts his palm, fingers splayed between them. He counts one, two, three. ‘Tried sleepin’ and I can’t and I—’ 

‘You can’t be here, though. You know that. You know you’re not supposed to be here.’ 

The corners of his mouth are dragged down by an anchor. Invisible. Means angry. Or confused, or. Both, most likely. 

‘’m thirsty,’ Harrington states, and then huffs, like Billy should’ve thought of that first. ‘Walked. ‘m tired.’ 

He wants to press. Wants. To hear it out loud, for once. _Can’t sleep without you. Can’t breathe right when you’re not around. Can’t let you leave without_ — 

He thinks he’s entitled to it. Just. Just this once, and then Harrington looks up at him, and Billy’s yet to drown in a darkness vast enough to shoot immunity up his system, so. 

He tiptoes his way into enemy territory to get Harrington his glass of water. 

Harrington doesn’t really. Sit up, when Billy hands it to him, just kinda. Pulls Billy back into bed, into. Billy’s bed, and Billy fuckin’. Knew. He knew, so the glass is only half full. Half empty. Half. 

Billy collapses on him, and Harrington doesn’t. Wait. For his fingers to retreat. Covers Billy’s hand with his own when he wraps it around the glass. Brings it to his lips, the glass and his hand and Billy’s, and gulps the water down, all of it, and leaves a tiny kiss on Billy’s thumb where it catches on the corner of his lips. 

Billy thinks, _You can’t keep doing that_. 

Comes out as, ‘Scoot over.’ 

He lays back down. Arms spread open, and Harrington. Slots right in. Drags his nails down Billy’s torso, and buries. A laugh under his jaw at Billy’s breath, cut short. 

Billy’s frozen still. It’s dark, and he can only make out Harrington. He can only ever. Make out Harrington. 

His eyes, half-lidded and hazed and halfway to asleep. His fingers, five spidery things crawling all over Billy’s sheets until they clash against Billy’s. Nudge their way in. Weave a web, one up and one down and everything in between. Hold tight. 

His lips, booze-slick, and graceless and. Hot. Scorching hot on the dip of Billy’s clavicle. Under the curve of his jaw. Higher, on top of the bone, and then to the left, right before the eye. 

On. On Billy’s lips. At the right corner first, and then trailing across the bottom lip. Biting, until Billy whines, and unlocks his mouth, and lets Harrington crawl in. Uncoordinated, and reeking of booze, and. 

‘Lemme have th’s,’ Harrington mumbles, coats. The inside of Billy’s mouth with it. ‘Jus’forawh’le. Lemme.’ 

And Billy’s already fading away, or maybe they both are, so he holds him tight, tight, tighter, and keeps Harrington steady long enough to kiss him right, the way they both deserve, or maybe Billy does, and darkness doesn’t wait until his eyes are shut to take over. 

* * *

He wakes up slowly, and then all at once. 

Harrington’s sitting cross-legged next to him. It’s still dark, almost. Almost light. Harrington looks sepia. 

‘It’s Saturday,’ he states, like that means anything, but he sounds coherent enough. Alert. Almost. Almost all there. He shifts, and something glimmers under the collar of his shirt. 

Billy just. Blinks up at him, so Harrington gets up. Hovers near the bed. Smoothes out a few lines on. His side of the mattress. Brushes the back of his knuckles over Billy’s forehead. It’s Saturday. 

Billy’s—he’s not good at goodbyes. Should be, by now. Feels like he’s always saying goodbye. And yet. 

All he knows is wounds, and ripping off band-aids. 

‘I’ll be quiet,’ Harrington says, and all Billy knows is wounds, and band-aids, and the beast next door. Asleep, still. Not for long. 

He sits up with a mumbled _okay_ , and goes to play Juliet to Harrington’s Romeo. Half-hanging out the window to part with the lover that never was. 

The bushes outside his window mute every sound except his name, spoken in the most familiar way. It’s Saturday, and the almost-sun tints everything almost-golden. Mostly grey, and not all real. Harrington’s calling his name. 

That’s. That’s real. 

‘Come over tonight,’ Harrington whispers, and it almost. Sounds like a question, except. Harrington never asks. 

It’s okay. He can make a habit out of ripping off band-aids slowly. 

The sun’s almost out. Billy takes a slice of sunshine and smears it on Harrington’s cheeks when he cups his face and licks some sunshine behind his teeth, too. 

It’s okay. Sometimes goodbyes can take six weeks. It’s okay. 

‘Yeah,’ he breathes, ‘okay,’ and feels Harrington tremble under his fingertips, on this Saturday morning, before the sun is out. 

* * *

They don’t talk about it. 

Billy gets sucked in the big, empty house, sucked into Harrington’s arms, more void than hug. Harrington cages him against the front door, the moment it’s closed behind him, and leaves six kisses on his lips, onetwothreefourfivesix, like he’s been keeping count, too. 

He kisses him, and murmurs _stay_ , this side of certain, like Billy’s ever given him any reason to be, and Billy. 

He won’t, not when it matters, so he counts to six, and. Stays. 

* * *

He’s never been good at goodbyes, so. Practice makes perfect. 

He spends the first week saying goodbye to the trees. They’ve been. Good, to him. A hiding place, when he needed one. That’s all he ever needed. The trees, casting a shadow bigger than the household one on him. 

There’s a blanket of quiet reigning over the woods, the kind he never knew back home, and he won’t miss it, but he finds. He spent the last two years falling in love with that, too. 

He haunts the empty hospital at the end of the second week. Drives out there, for the second time. Alone, for the first. 

He saw Hawkins that night. Like he was seeing it for the first time. He saw Hawkins. Saw Harrington, too. Peeled back the membrane to reveal the blood-red juice inside. 

He did a lot of falling, that night. 

The hours go by, and the sky goes blue, and pink-orange for a moment, and then blue, bluer than before. The Camaro’s rumbling plaintively all around him, and Billy stares at the hulk of a building, and feels its emptiness somewhere deep in his bones, and doesn’t defy the angry red NO ENTRY sign. 

It’s Harrington’s wasteland. There’s no place for him here. 

Weeks three and four are spent chasing ghosts all over Hawkins, places Harrington grabbed him by the hand and dragged him to, pulling and pushing and biting when he didn’t need to, not. Ever. Billy was always there, from the start. Always following. Always his. 

Billy spends two weeks retracing steps. Going on dates with memories, and every time it’s over there’s one more ghost trailing after him. Clinging to his clothes like smoke he can’t wash off. 

It’s a good thing all his belongings fit in a suitcase. The rest of the Camaro will be crammed with ghosts. 

He answers Harrington’s siren call every night. Gets sucked in by the maelstrom, and Harrington asks him, every night, bites and grips and doesn’t let Billy go, and he asks without ever asking, _stay_. Billy. Won’t. He won’t, not in the end, so every night. 

He stays. 

Finals week means goodbye to the school and everyone in it. This one’s been the easiest, so far. 

Saying goodbye to Neil’s place is pretty fucking easy, too. He decided, a while ago. His last week won’t be wasted packing up blood-tinged memories instead of his belongings. 

All of it fits in a beat-up suitcase and two duffel bags. Takes up the trunk of the Camaro and the passenger side of the backseat. That’s all he’s got to show for eighteen years. 

His stuff’s all packed, and Neil doesn’t seem to give much of a fuck where Billy is, as long as he turns up for dinner every night and drives Max to school, and. 

He could. Just for a while, he could sleep in Harrington’s bed, and stay long enough to take a shower with him in the morning, and find out what he looks like over morning coffee and eggs and jam on toast. 

He could have that, for a while. Before saying goodbye. 

He keeps the trunk of his car firmly shut, and spends the week avoiding Harrington every hour the sun’s still out. 

Nothing can dim Harrington’s silver light at night, though, and Billy. Is drawn back in, night after night, to the one ghost he can’t pack inside his suitcase. 

He stays, night after night, because he can. 

He’s gone in the morning, because. 

He can’t. 

* * *

He says goodbye to Ely the moment the ceremony’s over. The robe’s clinging to him. He’s sweaty all over under the heavy Indiana heat. A few more days of this, the oppressive vice around his lungs before he can breathe right again. 

Neil’s standing a few feet away, and Billy could—he could do this elsewhere. He could find her later. Somewhere else, when Neil’s busy decomposing in front of the tv, three beers dizzier. 

Except. 

He can almost taste the salt on his tongue. He’s so close. 

He’s walking up to her before he even knows it. She’s already expecting him with her arms open wide and her eyes catching the sun, and reflecting the happiness in his, and it’s so. So easy. 

Labels lost all meaning to him the moment _dad_ got bathed in red and _mom_ didn’t mean _right here_ anymore, but. 

She’s been the closest thing to _right here_ he’s felt in a while. The closest thing to safe. 

She’s giving him the home the shells have been whispering in his ear for years. 

It’s a good thing he did all the _promise you’ll call often_ and the _you’ll visit, right? there’s a spare bed in the guest room_ and the _make sure your sister knows, okay?_ a couple days ago. 

It’s a good thing that Ely gave strict instructions to Zach and Cece. To stay away today. Billy’s really not keen on doing the tears on his face times three. 

He’s distantly aware of Neil’s eyes trained on him. On. Them. Eyes like two gun sights. Loaded and locked on the targets. And then he. He remembers he doesn’t really give a fuck. 

Not anymore. 

He whispers _thank you_ and _I’ll call when I get there_ and _thank you_ , again. Won’t ever be enough. The least he can do is try. 

She pulls back. Sniffling. She’s sniffling, but her first instinct is always to wipe at his cheeks first. 

‘You get to learn how to breathe again,’ she says. 

Flowers will bloom on her hands from his tears, but when she walks away his face is an ocean away from dry. 

Irrationally, it makes him happy there’s one thing she’s not good at. 

* * *

Carol is. Distressingly sober by the time Billy tracks her down through the crowd. He wades through a sea of drunk not-teenagers-anymore. Drinking the dregs of their carefree days away. 

Billy gets that, and he doesn’t. 

He couldn’t ever afford carefree, not. Not really. He’s been mourning the loss of it for years. It feels. Foreign, watching from the side as everyone else is catching up. Mourning it all at once. They’ll all wake up in a different world tomorrow. It’ll all be the same except what’s expected of them. 

Billy can’t say he understands that, either. 

Carol’s sober, which is. More than he can say for her idiot boyfriend. Tommy slungs one arm around Billy’s shoulders, declares him _the best dude in the whole world, Carrie, I love this guy, y’know?_ and Billy doesn’t have it in him to shrug him off. 

The bonfire’s is crackling in Carol’s eyes when she looks up at him, features still set in Tommy mode, so. A mix of exasperation and fondness, but the first one’s washed away. Only fondness remains directed at him, and Billy thinks. 

She knows what’s coming. 

She even. Gets there first, because. Well. Carrie always has to. 

‘Call, sometimes,’ she says, and it’s like the buzzing around them shifts and simmers down to a distant droning to accommodate her. ‘If you feel like it. Or, like. If you ever come back. Look us up. We’ll be here.’ 

He hears her _we’ll be here_ for the inevitability she means it as. 

Tommy flounders next to him. ‘Wait, what?’ 

‘You’re a disaster, Hagan,’ Billy laughs, shoving him away. Fondly, and starts, ‘Take care of he—’ Trails off when the crackling of the fire shakes some sense into him. 

‘What am I saying,’ he mutters. Turns to Carol. ‘Carrie, take care of _him_.’ 

She says, ‘You know I will, babe,’ eyes jumping the fence of his shoulder to glow dark over whatever they stumble across there. 

Billy already knows, is—he’s viscerally aware of eyes on him. Of the distance between them, the thread pulled taught. Tugging him back into Harrington’s orbit. 

He turns to find two black holes watching until Billy decides to let go. Dissolve back into atoms on the other side of them. 

Carol tilts his face back towards her with a hand on his cheek and a sad smile on her lips. 

‘I will,’ she promises, and Billy isn’t sure what he was asking of her in the first place. It doesn’t matter, because she lowers her voice, and detaches Tommy off him, and wipes at the corners of her eyes, and. 

‘It’ll get easier now,’ she says. 

Billy’s grateful she doesn’t ruin her mascara for him. 

‘See ya around, doll,’ he says, and walks out of her life. 

* * *

Harrington’s waiting for him by the trees. At the end of the darkness, or maybe. At the entrance. 

Billy feels every step until he’s in his space on his skin, like a phantom ache he won’t ever shake off. 

He won’t. He’ll never shake it off. 

It makes him bold, the bonfire and the exuberant funeral for their adolescence, and. 

The suitcase in the trunk of his car. The suitcase, and the two bags, and his precious letter. His ticket back home. 

Bold enough to crash into Harrington, almost in full view, still, almost for everyone to see, push and shove and walk them both back until his mouth is tingling with the groan Harrington hisses into it when his back hits wooden bark. 

It’ll only get vaster from here. The distance he puts between them, and he stores every sound and every kiss and every breath inside his ribcage. He’ll use them when he’s drowning underwater. 

‘What was that?’ Harrington nods at the general direction of the crowd. At Carol and Tommy, dumb and in love, somewhere in there. 

Billy whispers, ‘Don’t worry about it,’ without ever allowing oxygen between them. What he’s breathing beats oxygen any day. 

Harrington drags his teeth over Billy’s lip, and bites until he gets the whine he was going for. 

‘You know I’ll find out, baby.’ 

The fire crackles, and sends sparks meeting the stars. Harrington feels. So solid, under Billy’s fingertips. It’s so hard to believe he’s already turning into a ghost. 

He nods. ‘Yeah,’ kisses it on Harrington’s lips, warm and solid and there, still. Still there, ‘stop talking. Get me out of here.’ 

Harrington looks at him for a second, edges licked smooth by the fire, and the stars, and the same inevitability Carol whispered _we’ll be here_ with. 

Harrington looks at him, and laces their fingers together, a lock Billy never wants to pick his way out of, and all Billy can think is _one more night_. 

He can have this, for one more night. 

* * *

The sun wakes him up in Harrington’s arms. 

He decides, right then and there. No more delays. He’ll spend his last day in Hawkins saying goodbye to the one person that came second to mattering the most, and make it as good as he can. For her. 

Harrington cracks one eye open when Billy’s halfway through planning the consolation meal he’ll leave Max behind with. 

Planning gets sidetracked when Harrington tucks his face in the crook of his neck, and breathes in, and licks at the pulse hammering there. Breathes out a laugh when it gets Billy squirming, and whining, and regretting not getting the fuck out of here the moment he opened his eyes. 

‘Steve,’ he says. Pleads. Angles his head to the side to get Harrington’s lips closer. ‘I gotta go.’ 

Harrington laughs, again. Pulls back so Billy’s only seeing him. Sleep-soft and unguarded and. So painfully, achingly beautiful. Billy’s own slice of the sun. 

‘What, you got somewhere to be today?’ He talks with his lips pressed to the corner of Billy’s mouth. It’s. It’s unfair. ‘School’s over, baby. You could stay here all day.’ 

He doesn’t look into Billy’s eyes when he adds, ‘You could. If you wanted.’ 

He won’t ever leave. Billy knows that. If he stays, he. He won’t ever leave. The curse will spill into him, contaminate him. Turn him into a ghost, too. 

He. He wants to stay. It’s a sharp ache, wrapping around his bones, squeezing tight. Cutting off all his oxygen, and Billy doesn’t. Mind. Wouldn’t, if he never filled his lungs with it again. Not if that’s what drowning gets him. 

He wants that so much, he— 

He has to get out of here. Right now. 

‘Promised Max I’d spend the day with her,’ he rasps, and hopes Harrington won’t keep offering him matching His and His underwater graves. 

Refusing gets harder and harder every time. 

He brushes a thumb across Harrington’s cheek and wishes it came back wet. ‘See you tonight, alright?’ 

Harrington circles his wrist and lets the touch go for a moment too long, and then nods, ‘Sure. Tonight,’ and. 

Just like that, golden loses all the glimmer, and the sun won’t ever shine so bright again, and Billy runs out of time. 

He’ll never see Harrington in the daylight, ever again. 

* * *

Halfway to Max’s favorite diner, which. In Hawkins talk translates to _the only one of Hawkins’ three diners with decent sweet potato fries_ , he. 

He pulls over. Fumbles with the door handle to avoid looking at her. 

‘C’mon. Let’s see if the lessons paid off.’ 

She tiptoes her way to the driver’s side. ‘You want me to—’ 

‘Not crash the car I’m driving two thousand miles back home tomorrow, yep. Think you can manage that?’ 

She pushes him aside with her eyes rolled back, like, ‘I’m way better than you,’ which. In Max talk means _you’ve never heard the phrase ‘diligent driver’ in your life_ , and _I kinda already miss you_ , and. 

It also means _I’m way better than you_. Out of the three, Billy. Opts to focus on that. 

Turns out, the lessons _have_ paid off, and. She _would_ be better at him behind the wheel, if her feet. Reached the pedal. 

He suppresses the urge to. Ruffle her hair, or something, call her cute, with that. Concentrated look on her face, and her teeth biting into her lip, and her feet stretching out to. Barely graze the pedals. He figures he can be a diligent passenger, at least. For her sake. 

She’s eyeing the empty spot. Right in front of the diner. Two years in Hawkins, Billy’s never found a spot right in front. 

‘Pancakes are on you if I park it in one go.’ 

‘Pancakes are on me anyway, peabrain.’ 

She rolls her eyes, again, and effectively shuts him the fuck up with one smooth turn of the wheel. Billy doesn’t even need to look to know her parallel parking’s perfect. 

The little show-off. 

The pancakes she’ll be stuffing her face with in two minutes are his only consolation for the smirk she flashes his way. 

* * *

They both get the breakfast special even though it’s like. Three hours away from sunset. 

24-hour breakfast is probably the fourth most exciting thing to happen to this town after proudly boasting the Harrington name in their census, and the construction of their poor excuse for a mall, and the Barb incident, in that order, so. 

Max mumbles _be back in a sec_ , and then whispers conspiratorially at their waitress, and when their pancakes arrive drenched in maple syrup and giving him a whipped cream-shaped frown, Billy stops fighting back the urge and shoves her stupid, smiling face back with his hand. 

Half an hour of pretending they’re carefree, and Neil’s shadow hasn’t been looming over them for their whole lives, and Billy isn’t essentially abandoning her and stepping into the sun, he. 

He clears his throat. The fork falls on the plate with a loud _clink_. ‘Alright. Walk me through it one more time.’ 

_One more time_ , as in. They’ve already gone through it every day after school, Max behind the wheel and Billy dodging one heart attack after the other. 

_One more time_ , as in. The last time. 

She stabs an innocent blueberry with her knife. Viciously. Billy’s less worried about her, all of a sudden. 

‘Car keys always in sight,’ she drones, monotone. Practiced. ‘If—if something happens, I walk to this,’ takes a folded paper out of the front pocket of her backpack, ‘this address. Tell them what happened. Call you.’ She finishes, under her breath, ‘Ask you to drive back.’ 

He nods. ‘Good. Now convince me you won’t be skipping any parts. Especially the last one.’ 

She’s already protesting, ‘Why drag you all the way back if it’s not impor—’ 

‘Max.’ He shuts her up, before the red at the edges of his vision takes over. ‘Listen to me. All of it is important, do you get that? You don’t need to be bleeding out on Ely’s carpet to get me crossing half the country overnight. I need to know you get that, Maxine.’ 

‘I do. I _do_ , okay? I get it.’ 

He deflates, shoulders climbing back down. ‘Wrist grabs turn to slaps, Max. If you wait until it gets serious, it’s already too late.’ He dips his head to catch her eyes. This is. It’s the most important lesson he can teach her. ‘Please. Ely knows, she’ll call anyway. I’d rather it came from you.’ 

She chews on her lip. Then devours that poor blueberry. ‘Here’s hoping it won’t ever come to that in the first place,’ she says, and sounds small, and angry, and not nearly as certain as she should be. 

‘It won’t. Max, look. It. It won’t. I’m just being paranoid, okay? He likes you. Nothing’s gonna happen.’ 

Under the table, he knocks their feet together, and steals a dollop of whipped cream from her plate, and wishes. 

Wishes he’s right. 

* * *

It’s almost sunset by the time he pulls up on Cherry. 

His last evening in Hawkins was spent watching Max behind the wheel, his. His wheel, skirting around and never exceeding the speed limit, because his sister’s a wuss, or. Whatever. Responsible, and Billy figures. Knows. There are plenty worse ways to waste a day. 

He took over three roads before Neil’s house came into sight, because having a death wish under that roof just seems like. An overkill. Poking the beast is the last thing Billy needs today. 

Besides. He figures it’s useful. Neil won’t be so vigilant the longer Max keeps it a secret. No need hiding the car keys if Max can’t drive, far as Neil knows. It’s. 

It’s one more preventive measure. 

‘Let me guess,’ she mutters, hand already on the handle, ‘don’t wait up?’ 

He scoffs out a laugh. He should’ve hugged her. When they switched. He can’t now, in front of. Neil’s house. 

‘I’ll come by later to get some sleep. You’ll be asleep by then, though. And I wanna get an early start tomorrow, so.’ 

‘So. Goodbye?’ 

He nods, once. Sharp and short and not half as effective as a hug. 

‘Yeah,’ he rasps, ‘promise you’ll call?’ 

He doesn’t say _the moment something happens_ , and he doesn’t say _or just. Whenever you miss me and feel like letting me know_ , even though. It’s what he means. 

She looks at the house, and then back at him, and Billy knows she heard it anyway. 

She clutches her backpack in her arms, and sniffles behind it. Billy doesn’t. Have the heart to tell her she’s not even close to inconspicuous about it. 

‘You, too,’ she says, ‘and. First chance I get I’m flying down there to teach you how to park your car, like. Decently. I mean. It’s embarrassing, at this point, so. You should be expecting me.’ 

He _does_ ruffle her hair, then, and hopes his laugh sounds dryer than his insides feel. His date with the ocean’s still a few days away, but his eyes haven’t gotten the memo. Salt and water and goodbyes. He’s never been good at any of it. 

He manages as far as, ‘I’m holding you to th—’ and then. He’s got an armful of orange flames tickling his face, and finds out Max took an early dive into the ocean, too. Finds matching tears on her cheeks when she wraps her arms around him and sniffles, like. Right into his ear. 

She holds on for a moment, not. Not longer than that, and then untangles them, and sits back at the seat, blinking at him, and. 

‘Alright, go on,’ Billy says. 

He watches her go, and wishes. Wishes he’d given her a better hug. 

* * *

Gravel crunches under his baby’s tires, and everything’s blue and purple. 

He thought he’d be alone, he. 

He thought he’d have more time. Just a bit. Just a few more effortless breaths. 

‘Hey,’ he says, and Harrington must’ve heard him, Billy’s arrival march shattering the silence, but he turns around, and smiles like it’s two years ago, and they’re taking this from the start. ‘What are you doing out here? I was just about to come find you.’ 

Harrington looks like a ghost. Familiar and faded around the edges. He looks. He looks like Billy’s ghost. 

He waits until Billy’s next to him. On the edge. 

‘What’s gonna happen now?’ Never takes his eyes off the water below. The rocks are steep enough it can’t catch the sun, not even when it melts down to meet it. It looks black, and everything around them is blue, and purple. It looks. Wrong. ‘Now we’re done with school, I mean. What do we do now?’ 

Billy studies the half of his face he’s being granted access to. All of him a tight line, curled around his lips, and his eyes, and his brows, and pulling tight until that’s all Billy can see. 

He wants. To reach out, and smooth out some of it, some parts of it, and feel Harrington shiver under his fingers, but. 

The water’s black, and the sun’s gone down on Billy’s last day. 

‘You know what I’m doing,’ he whispers. Reevaluates the assignment of titles. Who’s the knife, and who’s the wound. 

He couldn’t tell, for a while. It’s. It’s so clear, now. 

Harrington shivers, anyway, and Billy doesn’t get to feel it. 

‘We goin’ back to mine or what?’ 

Walks away. Makes Billy follow him, for the last time. 

Billy. Follows him. For the last time. 

* * *

Kitchen’s been out of limits since. That night. 

Like a yellow tape, CRIME SCENE DO NOT CROSS. Invisible to everyone else but them. 

Except everything’s warped the wrong way tonight, and Harrington turns the key in the lock, and toes off his Tailwinds, and cuts through the tape like he can’t see the crusted blood on the marble. 

Billy’s frozen, framed by the doorway, watching the knife Harrington grabs catch the neon above. Watching the apple in Harrington’s hands get sliced, in two, in fours. It’s not. Bleeding how it should. 

How. How Billy did. 

Harrington bites into the edge of a fourth. ‘Wan’some?’ 

The air’s heady and vinous, like the apple’s been left out in the suffocating heat one day too long. Billy’s dizzy with it. 

He breathes, and it’s so. Dumb, and childish, paying attention to the lines. Socked feet on chequered floor tiles, one step on black and one on white and then black again, and then. 

Harrington’s waiting for him, crossing lines and trampling and annihilating them. 

He looks ridiculous like that, half an apple hanging out of his mouth, and so beautiful, like nothing should under white neon, blinding and unforgiving, and. 

He looks crushed, too, like he bit the poisoned fourth of the fruit, like. Like he just realized Billy’s done playing games he can be a part of. 

Beautiful things shouldn’t be so easy to crush, Billy thinks. 

He bites the other half right out of Harrington’s mouth. 

Billy bites into the apple, and then Harrington groans, and pushes him flat against the island, and bites into him. 

Every slide of their tongues tastes of apple, and Billy. Impossibly, selfishly. He hopes Harrington will remember him every time he lets an apple rot. 

Harrington whispers _baby_ and _want you, want you, I—_ and takes Billy’s hand in his, and whispers _c’mon_ , and. 

Billy follows, keeps. Following him, gets dragged through the darkness of the house, and then out of it, up into the light. Harrington never lets go, their sweaty palms pressed together, and Billy squeezes, once, feels warmth bloom inside him, and Harrington turns back to smile at him, and. 

Just like that, Billy’s trapped in the land of the dead. 

* * *

When he pushes, Harrington falls on the bed. Digs his claws in Billy’s thighs the moment he climbs on top of him, gets settled. 

Breaks the surface to come up for air on Billy’s lips. 

Billy breathes. Life into him, and thinks they’re still in present tense. Still drowning. They’ll be in past by the end of the night. Drowned. 

‘Hey,’ he says, and stops the hands fumbling at his belt. Harrington doesn’t stop, maybe hasn’t, not. Not ever before. For anyone, except— 

It’s exhilarating. Present tense. 

He throws his shirt off, and escapes Harrington’s clutches long enough to get out of his jeans, too. Slots himself right back into the empty Billy-shape space the moment he’s done. 

Harrington presses them together, lips and chests and legs, with a palm flat against Billy’s back. The air’s gone stale between them, both of them running on one breath, traded. Back and forth, and Harrington’s still growling _closer_ , and his mouth goes wider, for just a second, like they’re playing python and rat now. 

Billy says, ‘Hey,’ kinda really means _eat me alive and keep me here forever_. Combs his fingers through Harrington’s hair. ‘Slow down.’ 

A raised eyebrow and the obligatory royal huff later, Harrington. Slows down. Keeps grinding up against Billy, and rolling his hips in circles, and teasing, but. He slows down. 

‘You want it slow tonight, baby?’ 

Billy hums, and presses down. Eats up the whine he gets for his trouble. ‘Want the. Whaddya call it. Royal treatment? Special?’ 

‘Sure, baby,’ Harrington laughs, and tries to nod for the second it takes to remember shaking his head means moving away. From Billy. He goes still again. ‘Royal. I like that. That what you want?’ 

He asks, and doesn’t really. Wait, just. Licks a stripe up Billy’s throat, hooks both his ankles around Billy’s legs. Pulls him down. 

Billy nods, kinda dazed, kinda out of it, kinda in love and running out of time with it. ‘I want all of it,’ he whispers, and means _you_. Always means _you_. 

‘Drawer,’ Harrington mumbles, and it’s June in Indiana. There’s. There’s no excuse for the way he’s shivering. 

Present tense. Still shivering. Still breathing. Still— 

Billy reaches for the drawer. Gets the lube, and a condom, and some of his control back. 

Except Harrington’s waiting for him when he’s pulled back, catches his face between sweaty, clammy palms. ‘I’ll give you slow,’ he says, and Billy can’t stand the look in his eyes, ‘I’ll give you anyth—’ 

Billy crashes their mouths together, and licks around until his tongue squashes that word behind Harrington’s teeth, until the roots are pulled out, and it can’t grow anymore. 

‘C’mon,’ he says, gasping for breath, suffocating. Drowning. He guides Harrington’s hand between his legs, ‘C’mon,’ kisses him, ‘Get in me.’ 

Hopes Harrington doesn’t hear the other half of it. 

Hopes the _stay there_ gets wafted away in the humid Indiana night. 

* * *

‘What are you doing?’ 

Harrington. Went slow. Two hours earlier Billy asked, and. He went slow. 

Billy’s leaving. He’s going home, he’s— 

‘Baby,’ Harrington drawls, watching him from the bed. Head propped on his elbow, hair flying around him. Billy’s swan song on him. ‘What are you doing?’ 

The things in his orbit have a habit, Billy’s sure of it. Getting lost when he needs them the most. His pufferfish plushie in the middle of a thunderstorm. His mom, after one too many of Neil’s storms. 

His. His fucking shirt, fuckin’ currently. Not a cloud in the fuckin’ sky, and Billy still hears electrical crackling over his head. He swears he does. Is he supposed to hide under a tree or keep away? He could never remember. 

He’s toast anyway. 

He dips one toe in the water. That’s one thing you’re never supposed to do when it rains, that much he knows. 

‘I’m getting dressed,’ he tries. 

‘I can see that.’ Harrington’s smiling. Flicks his lighter, open-shut-open. Like this is still a game. Like he’s still winning, which. So four months ago. ‘Why, is what I’m asking.’ 

‘Rather not strut around Hawkins buck naked. People might get the wrong idea.’ 

The lighter flicks shut one last time before Harrington sets it on the nightstand. He pats the bed next to him. Flicks the covers over—Billy’s side. 

‘How ‘bout you take those off and come back to bed, then?’ 

Billy’s leaving. He’s leaving, he’s going home, he— 

‘You’re not gonna make it easy, are you. Not. Not even once.’ 

‘Billy. Baby, come back to bed.’ 

‘I’m going home.’ Billy lights the match. Sets the whole world on fire. 

Harrington scoffs, and stretches. Makes. Billy wait for it. ‘Or,’ he drags out, ‘you come back here, and drive back in the morning. Like always.’ 

_Like always_. Like they’ve been doing for two years, for. For all their lives, instead of cramming a lifetime into the last month and a half. _Like always_. Like it’s always been like this. Like. It will be like this. Always. 

‘You’re not listening to me,’ Billy says, and he wishes for a jacket, for. Something to shield him from. The storm, brewing under Harrington’s ceiling. ‘I’m going home. I’m going. Back home.’ 

His shirt’s mocking him. Peeking out from under the bed. Harrington’s bed. Billy pulls it out. Puts it on before the numbness sets in. 

‘Tomorrow morning,’ he goes on, when the silence starts to sizzle dangerously. ‘Uh. Today, I guess. Wanna get an early start, beat the traffic—’ 

Harrington says, ‘I knew.’ Cuts Billy off. Doesn’t. Add anything to that for a long moment. Stretched out into eternity. Into. Always. 

Then he sits up. 

‘I knew,’ he says, again, and it sounds lifeless. The sky opens up above them. ‘About the letter. Before you told me. Not. That you got accepted. Just knew you’d applied.’ The forced breath he lets out is. A sign of life, at least. ‘So I guess I knew you’d get in.’ 

‘I—I don’t—’ 

‘I knew about Nance, too,’ Harrington walks over Billy’s words. Smashes them down to a pulp. ‘Her and that guy, I mean. I was gonna tell you, that day. After New Year’s. Beat you to it. I was gonna—’ 

He looks up at Billy, hands twisted at the covers, lips twisted on his face. ‘You kept asking. I think—I was gonna give you what you wanted.’ 

Words and colors and stars are swimming in Billy’s eyes. All this time, they. They could’ve— 

His lips are shut dry. He licks them open. ‘Did. Ely tell you?’ 

In his defense, when Harrington nods, he. Looks sad about it. ‘Yeah, man,’ he says, ‘but it’s not like. Her fault. She thinks we’re best friends, so. I was bound to know. We bumped into each other. First day after the holidays, and she just. She said how happy she guessed I was. For you.’ 

‘See, I was gonna,’ he says, looks sad about it, sounds. Sounds even sadder. Quiet, and. Defeated. Almost. ‘I was gonna let you have it, Billy,’ he says, doesn’t say _me_. Squares his shoulders, eyes going dark for the second it takes to remind Billy this is a car crash in motion. Still. Still going, ‘Then I figured. You’re leaving,’ Harrington says, doesn’t say _me_ , ‘so. You don’t deserve it.’ 

‘You weren’t just punishing me.’ 

‘You didn’t _get_ it. I waited for you. To get it, and you never did. You kept. Looking at me with her, and you never. You never did anything about it, baby.’ 

Billy looks at Harrington, teeth pulled back in a snarl and eyes dark, mean, to hide. The fear, Billy thinks, and he. He gets it, all at once. He gets it, and it leaves him gasping for breath. For. For all the time lost. 

‘So you thought. What, breaking up with her would. Get me to stay?’ 

Harrington. Looks at him, loses all the mean. Billy wonders how. How it fits in there, in just a look. All this sadness. Boundless and unfathomable, and all. For him. 

He’s being dragged back before he knows what he’s doing. Got a hand in Harrington’s hair in the next breath, tilting his head up, his. His eyes, and all that sadness, too. 

He curls his free hand around Harrington’s jaw. His time ran out ten minutes ago, and he’s still here. Holding a never-was in his palm. 

‘I’m not doing this for you, do you get that? Steve, I’m not—I’m not leaving for you. I’m not gonna stay for you, either.’ 

‘So you’re just leaving me behind instead.’ 

Billy lets out a trembling breath, and it doesn’t sound like a laugh, not. Not even a little. 

‘It’s not enough. This. It’s not enough, and I couldn’t even. Stay if it was.’ He strokes his thumb across Harrington’s cheek, along the bone, feels him. Shuddering. Coming apart, is Billy’s guess. ‘You said anything, Steve, and this. It’s not enough.’ 

Harrington shakes his head, and keeps his eyes closed. Whispers, ‘I don’t want you to leave.’ 

Like it’s ever been his decision. 

‘I know,’ Billy says. ‘I know you don’t. Steve, I just—’ He can think of three ways of ending this sentence. Then decides, in this one moment of clarity. It doesn’t matter. ‘I need to know you don’t want me to stay, either. Not like this, not. Not in there.’ 

Harrington opens his eyes like a man on death row. The next sunrise will be his last, and Billy will be chasing it. 

He says, ‘I—’ the same moment Billy says, ‘I’m always—’ 

They fall together, their words, crashing and cancelling each other out, and there’s a metaphor somewhere in there, and. 

They’re out of time. 

Billy nods, because he knows where they were heading, both of them. Nods, because Harrington knows, too. 

He doesn’t say goodbye. Figures he’s earned that right, when he’s spent the last six weeks watering the one in his throat. Pulling it out, root by root. 

He’s never been good at them, anyway. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> imagine if i left it at that :)) how fun would that be :))  
> (no wait im kidding the last part is ready and will be up really really soon but like. come scream at me if you wanna? here or on [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/) im not picky)


	12. Chapter 12

Dawn’s still five hours away when his head hits the pillow. 

He sets the alarm for a quarter to six. Gives him enough time to get the last of his stuff and get out before anyone’s awake. 

Gives him enough time to get out, before the sun rises on him in Hawkins, and he becomes one of the ghosts, too. 

* * *

It’s just a line behind the horizon, pink and orange and every hue a new hope is meant to wear, when Billy opens the front door. For the last time. 

He’s carrying his last box to the car, and the sun’s just a line under all the grey, and. 

The bedroom door creaks open. There’s an alertness to Neil’s steps, to. His whole posture. Billy can’t remember a time it wasn’t there, squaring his shoulders like permanent pads, giving a weight to his movements. Giving. An urgency to them. _Get out before I get you_. 

Billy’s frozen, one foot out the prison door. One foot in. He waits, breath baited and trapped in his throat. He waits, still. Trapped. 

Neil plants his weight a few steps from the door. Solid and compact and. Doesn’t make a move, to. To stop Billy. Drag him back inside with a fist on his hair. 

The sun’s almost up, folding the blanket of fear the night settled over the world as it rises, rises, keeps rising. 

Billy looks at the man in front of him, and he’s. He’s not afraid. There are no bars at the windows, and the door’s wide open, road stretching out before him. Beckoning. Waiting. 

He’s already got an army of people at his side. The prison guard’s out of a job. Finally. 

‘I got into college,’ he says, and allows the pride fighting to seep into his voice. It’s well-earned. Fuck his father’s fists. 

Neil nods, once, curt and sharp, grunts, ‘Take care of the car.’ Moves to walk back into the house. 

And like. Fuck that. 

‘Neil,’ Billy calls out, voice rising just enough to carry. He revels in the way Neil’s back goes taut with surprise. The way his fists curl tight with fury, and the knowledge his outlet’s out the door. ‘She’s not afraid of you,’ he says, head tilted towards Max’s room. ‘Don’t give her a reason to be.’ 

He can see it happening, the moment Neil realizes he’s lost. Traces the way his throat bobs, his fists clench at his sides. He’ll never stare down the barrel of his father’s eyes again, not if he can help it. 

Neil says, ‘They’re asleep. Don’t slam the door on your way out,’ and. 

Billy doesn’t wait to find out if he stays to watch him drive away. 

* * *

The sign comes into sight first, for. For the last time. The sun’s still climbing its way up the sky, and Billy blinks to clear his eyes, hand on the handle to set the windshield wipers on, maybe. Wipe away that Harrington-shaped smudge ahead. 

It doesn’t work. 

The smudge gets bigger, more. Defined the closer the Camaro gets. Billy sighs. Pulls the car over a few feet before the sign. So. So close. 

His feet stop right in front of. The one who got away. Or. Maybe that’s himself. The one. Getting away. 

A breeze flows through the trees, whispers _maybe it’s none of you_ in his ear, and Billy shakes his head. He decides. Maybe—maybe it’s both of them. Getting away. 

‘How long you been here?’ 

Harrington’s been watching him the whole time, and he still manages to look startled. Startled and sleep-deprived and beautiful. So. So fucking beautiful. 

‘Since you left,’ he shrugs. ‘Didn’t wanna. Miss you.’ 

Billy helps him up with a hand, and only then notices the duffel bag Harrington’s been slouching on for. The last six hours. 

‘I’m not staying,’ he states, Harrington still crashing into him. He doesn’t let go of Billy’s hand. Billy. Doesn’t let go, either. 

Harrington snatches his eyes away from Billy’s lips, makes the trip up to his eyes seem like a struggle. ‘I don’t want you to,’ he says, kinda. Tilts Billy’s world with it. ‘I don’t want you to stay in there, and I don’t. I don’t want you to fuckin’—leave me behind, either, baby.’ 

At some point during all that, the. Tilting Billy’s world and the _baby_ and the. Ruining Billy’s life looking like that, Harrington’s brought their faces together, noses bumping against each other, and Billy. Couldn’t tell _when_ to save his life, but he’s stopped holding Harrington’s hand, holds. 

Holds him close instead, with ten fingers threaded at his nape. Holding him close. Holding him. There. 

He breathes, ‘Steve—’ and waits for Harrington to swallow the rest down, like. He always does. Like they. Always do. 

‘Look,’ Harrington tilts his neck to the side, bares. His throat for Billy. Snatches one hand to move it where he wants to. Lets it rest on the silver glinting around his throat. 

Billy remembers—he remembers catching glimpses of that, remembers— 

‘Take a look, baby.’ 

Carefully, with gentle fingers and breath caught somewhere on the way up his mouth, Billy pulls the chain out from under Harrington’s shirt, metal skin-warm under his touch. Feels a shudder winning ground over him. Forces that breath out, shuddery and shaky and like the first lifesaving bite of oxygen after staying too long underwater. 

‘I thought I spotted it,’ he mutters, in awe, breathless, free in all the ways that matter. His fingers trace the small trident, the upside-down crown Billy thinks was made for Harrington, even if it wasn’t. ‘You been wearing it the whole time?’ 

Harrington licks at his lips. Nods, ‘You gave it to me.’ 

It’s the best answer Billy could hope for. Better, even. So. So much better. Lands on his chest like a bag of bones, to remind him they’re still in the present. Still. Breathing. 

He fights back the urge to. Run into the woods. Howl. He tucks a couple of curls behind his left ear, instead. 

Harrington sucks in a breath, so Billy knows the moment he sees it. The seashell Harrington gave him, almost a year ago, with a kiss and a promise he broke a few days later. The only piece of him Billy thought he could. Bring with him. 

‘Thought,’ he starts, has to stop to clear his throat, his eyes, his head. ‘Thought at least maybe a part of you could see the ocean.’ 

Fingers creep down his arm, meet his. Worm their way in. 

‘How about I see it for myself?’ 

Billy says, ‘Steve—’ and Harrington doesn’t cut him off, for. The first time. Maybe. Not for the last. Billy squeezes at the fingers laced with his. Holds tight. ‘You’re not allowed to kill me.’ 

‘I know,’ Harrington says, meeting him halfway, holding just as tight. ‘I won’t.’ 

‘You could. Steve. You _can_.’ 

Harrington looks at him, eyes open, soft. A gaping wound, exposed. 

He heard it, Billy thinks. _I’d let you. I’d still let you._

He must’ve heard it, because Harrington lets go, and he doesn’t. Holds Billy’s face in his palms instead. ‘I won’t,’ he promises, seals it with their lips, pressed together, ‘no more.’ 

Billy closes his eyes against the sun, and nods, and decides. He never wanted Harrington’s ghost in his passenger seat anyway. 

This is better. 

* * *

Three hours into impenetrable silence, Harrington points to a sign for a MacDonald’s a little up the road. 

He’s been. Dozing, for the last three hours, or. Regretting ever getting in the car. 

Billy jumps, a bit. In his seat. 

‘Oh, hey,’ Harrington says, ‘make a turn there, will ya?’ 

Which is. Not a question. Not. Not a question, either. 

Progress. 

‘It’ll take years to get there if we stop at ever—’ 

‘Who says we’re stopping?’ Harrington’s already digging through his bag for his wallet. Looks up at Billy, head tilted, like. _C’mon_. Says it out loud, in case. Billy didn’t get it. ‘Man, c’mon. I spent all night waiting for you. You stole my _apple_ last night. ‘m starving.’ 

Billy rolls his eyes. Contemplates shooting back _I didn’t ask you to_. Decides. He doesn’t feel like lying, anymore. He’s spent the last two years asking. 

He pulls up in front of the window. His stomach’s protesting, that. Yeah, breakfast would be nice, because the last thing he ate was the apple he. Stole from Harrington. 

Harrington places his order, and never asks if Billy wants anything, and. 

Billy doesn’t butt in. Out of spite. 

The smell of english muffin assaults his nostrils when the wrapper’s peeled off. Billy. Keeps his eyes on the road. Stubbornly. 

He hears a soft laugh next to him, and then Harrington says, ‘Stop sulking,’ and, ‘You know I hate these things, right?’ 

Billy frowns. Deeper, opens his mouth, ‘’m not su—’ Ends up with a mouthful of english fuckin’ muffin. 

He takes his eyes off the road to. Stare a question at Harrington. Who’s still holding the stupid muffin under his nose. For Billy to. Bite into. 

‘Breakfast,’ Harrington shrugs, and stuffs a chocolate chip cookie in his mouth, and then a handful of fries, like. At the same time, so. 

Billy takes another bite, and hides a smile behind it, and. Keeps driving. 

* * *

Two hours away from Amarillo, Harrington stretches behind the wheel, goes, ‘Think we’ll get in trouble if we camp out here for the night?’ 

They’ve been passing signs for the Palo Duro canyon for a while. Billy’s been. Kinda itching. Kinda keeping silent about it. 

The hair grazing Harrington’s shoulders is soft when he reaches out. Tangles his fingers in it. ‘Got the urge to go star-watching all of a sudden?’ 

Harrington smiles, and it’s all for him, even though he reserves it for the road ahead. 

‘Figured I’d find out if they look the same everywhere.’ 

A shiver runs through him when Billy’s hand brushes the back of his neck. Mouth stretching wider, and wider. 

‘They’re pretty no matter where you are,’ Billy says, a little bit in awe, a whole lot in love, ‘make a left there.’ 

* * *

They’re huddled together in the backseat. 

It’s almost painful, halfway there and resisting the call of the ocean, but. 

It’s worth it. For the two hours they spent driving around. Staring at plain rocks, and feeling small about it. Insignificant, and small, and finite. 

Worth it for the way Harrington turned to him, fingers webbing around Billy’s wrist, pulled until Billy’s fingers were buried in his hair again. Worth it for the smile that followed, and. The way Harrington let him see all of it this time. 

All for Billy. 

They spread a blanket on the ground, and stayed on top of it as long as they could. Not moving, or talking, or. Breathing, even. Eyes fixed on the blanket of stars above. Fingers tangled, sewn together. 

They stayed on top of the blanket as long as they could, and then made space in the back of the car, got. Under it, because Harrington’d nuzzled his face against Billy’s neck, left him trembling with every word hitting his skin, said, ‘Promised me I’d see the ocean, baby. Can’t do that if I freeze to death.’ 

Billy’d huffed, ‘Yes, your Majesty,’ and then, ‘Gotta get off me first, asshole,’ when Harrington. Didn’t budge. 

Still. They made it. Somehow. 

Somehow, they. They made it. 

So they’re huddled together, now. 

Just one day ago, a day and an eternity and a thousand miles behind, Harrington was holding him like this. Just one day ago, Billy. Was leaving. 

He left, and Harrington’s still here. All around him. 

He shakes and pretends the cold night air’s to blame. Harrington tightens his arms around him, and Billy pretends he’s not shaking because of that, either. 

They’re pressed so close Billy hears Harrington’s eyes creaking open when he whispers his name. 

Half-asleep, Harrington hums an answer. 

There’s nothing else but them out here. It’s just the stars above, and the mountains standing guard, and. Harrington’s arms, wrapped around him. Their bodies, wrapped around each other. 

It weighs on him, the cosmic consonance of this moment. Weighs on him, impossibly. He reaches out, carves a slice out of his own delicate, impossible world. Holds it tight in his hands. 

‘Steve,’ he says again, ghosts his fingers, holding the world, over Harrington’s face. Eyelashes fluttering open, tickling Billy’s fingertips. Billy’s very own impossible slice of the world. ‘We need to get it right this time.’ 

Harrington pulls back, just an inch, barely. Looks at him, here, surrounded by stars and mountains and something maybe not yet wonderful. Searches for something on Billy’s face, in his eyes. In the way Billy so defiantly chose _we_. 

Billy decides, a second later, with Harrington’s mouth breathing life into him. It’s always felt this way. Like stars flaking off the sky, catching on fire, crashing through the atmosphere. Like the earth’s shaking with it. 

Harrington kisses him, and Billy’s trembling, or maybe they both are, or. Maybe it’s the earth, swaying along. 

Harrington kisses him, and lets the stars, and the mountains, and the whole world, say the words they’re not. 

* * *

They’re almost an hour away from the state line by the time it gets dark. 

‘Hey,’ Billy says around the bite of his burger, ‘mind if we drive all night? We could get there early, have the whole day ahead. No need to waste money on a room. You okay with that?’ 

Harrington raises one shoulder in a shrug. Two sesame seeds are sitting mockingly on the corner of his mouth. Billy wants to lick them up. 

He twists his fists at his sides, instead. This—this, between them. Their own impossible slice of the world. It can’t go public, for more reasons than one. 

‘Sure,’ Harrington drawls, ‘wan’me to drive?’ 

Billy shakes his head. Steals the lettuce out of Harrington’s burger. ‘I’m good.’ 

Harrington stares at his hands, his lettuce-less meal. Stares at Billy, a smirk tilting the corner of his mouth up. The sesame seeds with it. 

The parking lot is empty, which. Didn’t mean anything to Billy, a moment ago, but. 

Harrington spares a glance around, and finds it as empty as Billy did, and. Steps closer. Tucks a few curls behind Billy’s ear. Out here. In the open, and. 

Just like that, Billy crosses one reason their world can’t go public off his list. 

‘You’re running on fumes, baby,’ Harrington’s saying, ‘and I’m too pretty to become roadkill.’ 

Which is. Objectively true. The last part, at least. 

Billy gathers enough sense to mutter, ‘Yeah, you fuckin’ are,’ and feels it spilling out of him, spiralling out of control with every circle Harrington traces on his cheek. Out here. In the open. 

‘I’m _good_ ,’ he says again, squeezes Harrington’s hip, once. ‘Wanna show you the beach before the crowds flood in.’ 

Harrington goes. A little soft, at that. A little pliant under Billy’s touch. ‘Yeah,’ he says. ‘Okay. Wake me up if you wanna switch?’ 

Billy squeezes, again. Wipes a thumb over Harrington’s mouth. Brings it to his lips, and swallows those two sesame seeds, and everything he wants to say, too. 

* * *

When they roll into the state, an hour later, Harrington sucks in a breath, eyes going wide even though it’s dark, even though. They can only make out the streetlights and the road ahead, and those. Look the same everywhere. 

His hand settles on Billy’s knee, palm curving around it, blindly, like Harrington. Already knows Billy’s there. Instinctively. 

The streetlights are prettier here, Billy decides. He wonders why he didn’t notice that earlier. 

It stays there, his hand, the whole world narrowed down to that single point of contact, and Harrington falls asleep with his eyes on the darkness outside, and. 

_Home_ , Billy thinks, and it doesn’t have anything to do with state lines, not. Even a little. 

* * *

By the time he’s pulling up on Mission Beach, it’s almost light out, and Billy’s vibrating out of his skin. 

Every breath is salt-scented. He doesn’t check, but he can almost feel the skin of his neck rearranging, sliced open to form gills, his lungs readjusting to breathing underwater. It creeps up on him. The realization. The ache he’s been nurturing, deep inside. For two years. 

He missed this. 

Harrington’s still squashed against the window, so Billy’s quiet. When he opens the door, and rummages through one of his bags until he finds his trunks. He changes into them. Stretches his arms to reach the sky, and decides he needs Harrington to be awake. 

He decides—he wants this to be his forever. Harrington doesn’t get to sleep through it. 

The sound of the door opening is unnervingly muffled by the roaring of the water. Harrington’s burrowed into the seat, and Billy almost. Doesn’t want to shatter that, for him. Dreaming while the ocean’s crashing around him. Almost. 

‘Hey.’ His palm curls around the curve of Harrington’s face like they were sized to fit. He gets to see Harrington clutching his way back to awareness. Gets to feel Harrington’s eyelashes fluttering, tickling his fingertips. While the ocean’s crashing and roaring and singing around them. 

Harrington blinks awake, sitting up, and then slumps back down. Leaning into Billy’s touch. Chasing it. 

There’s not enough light to make out colors, yet, but. Billy bets he’s got roasted chestnut looking up at him. Give it an hour, he’ll be staring into warm amber. 

‘We’re here,’ he says, brushing lifeless, matted hair away from roasted chestnut. ‘Look.’ 

Harrington does, then. Turns his head to the left, and to the right, and says, ‘Oh,’ lips parted in wonder. ‘It’s endless.’ 

Billy laughs, ‘Yeah,’ kinda means _it’s really not_ , kinda means, _got so much to show you_ , kinda means. _Do you get it now?_

He. He must get it, Harrington, because he slides out of the car, right into Billy’s space. ‘Hawkins. It felt like a cage,’ he breathes, not really a question, close enough to be heard over the waves. 

Billy thinks, _in more ways than one_. Says, ‘Not just to me.’ 

Harrington hums, and it’s the best admission he’s willing to give. ‘Where are we?’ he says, fingers climbing up Billy’s arm, raising goosebumps. Leaving Billy unmoored, shivering. Helpless in open water. 

‘Fifteen minutes outside the city. UCSD’s a twenty-minute drive away. Wanna go check out the campus, later.’ 

Harrington’s eyes go a little wide, and his mouth twists a bit, proudly. In awe. ‘You got into—’ His fingers latch around Billy’s neck, press against the bone at the base. ‘Jesus. I didn’t. Ask.’ 

Billy thinks, _you never do_. Shakes his head to breathe salt and remember where they are. 

Says, ‘D’you think to pack your trunks when you were planning on running away with me?’ 

‘Yeah,’ Harrington scoffs, rolling his eyes, still roasted chestnut in the morning twilight, and then. They go wide, wide, wider, his eyes. His fingers grip Billy’s arms. Tight. ‘I can’t swim in deep water,’ he says, sounding something frantic. 

The waves. Stop, right then. Like they’re luring them in, playing nice till they eat them whole. 

‘I do,’ Billy says. Cups Harrington’s face between his palms. Forces him to look until Harrington finds what he’s looking for in his eyes. ‘I’m right here. C’mon.’ 

Harrington takes a moment to shudder, inside Billy’s arms, stares at the water, and the sky, and. 

He changes into his trunks. Toes off his shoes. Dips—dips his toes in the sand. 

Finds Billy’s eyes. Nods. Ready for his baptism. 

Billy walks them to the water, ‘Keep walking until you can’t reach the bottom,’ and Harrington follows, follows, follows him. 

He needs to have this, this one moment alone, his return back home. He dives in, lets the water take him, surround him, wrap him up in its arms. Safe, and numbing, and. Familiar. 

He turns to find Harrington watching him. Waiting, reverently. Like he knows not to intrude, just for this one moment of. Homecoming. 

Billy smiles, kinda. Wants to howl to the sky. ‘I got you,’ he says instead, arms open to stay afloat. To welcome Harrington in. To. Stay alive. ‘Steve. Come _on_. I got you.’ 

He catches him, when Harrington falls right into the empty space of his arms, made. Just for him. Hangs his arms around Billy’s shoulders, fingers knitting behind his neck. Lets out a breath, shaky, unraveled, when Billy’s hands settle on his hips. Press against the bone. 

The sun’s climbing up the sky, slowly, goes green for a second before a line of fire lights up the horizon. Billy was right. He’s left staring into amber, honey-sweet and. Warm, so warm, while the water sloshes around them. 

He wishes, fleetingly, selfishly, that Harrington. Won’t ever let go. Won’t ever learn how to swim when the sand fails him, will. Will always need Billy to stay alive. He thinks. Harrington must’ve been wishing the same about him on firm ground. 

It unlocks something inside him, that thought. Shakes something loose, unhinged, because. 

Harrington was trying to tell him, all this time. This is what it feels like. 

They’re tangled together, carried wherever the waves take them, feet bumping against each other’s with every exhale. Harrington’s solid against him. As real as Billy feels. 

‘What happens next?’ he says, eyes going liquid golden as the sun keeps rising. 

Billy looks. Looks at the sky, and the water. At Harrington, solid in his arms, waiting for him with a small smile on his lips, a bigger one in his eyes. 

He gives one back, and it’s unfair, keeping their smiles apart. It’s unfair. 

They meet in the middle, Harrington smiling into the kiss, Billy smiling into Harrington’s smile. It’s so much less than a kiss. So much more than that. 

The sun blinds Billy for a second, until. It’s hidden again, behind Harrington. Behind Harrington, smiling at him, blinding Billy for all the right reasons. 

He owes Harrington an answer, except they’re in the middle of the ocean, and Billy really. Really doesn’t feel like talking. Feeds him one more kiss instead, figures. Harrington will complain later, or. Take it from him. Like always. 

There’s time to even the score. Later. 

For now, they’re in the ocean. 

They’re not drowning. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so uh. it's over. i don't have enough words to thank everyone who chose to join me on this ride, like. every comment, every ask, every nice word sent my way lives in my heart forever and has gotten me through eight months of writing this monster, you guys. i can't thank you enough. i really really really hope this ending soothes some of the pain 🥰
> 
> there's a [moodboard](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/post/644139656228880384/break-like-waves-e-932k-1212-completewere) and a [playlist](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4oEmVI9B6N6fwkM2iFre2t?si=2nJArfYzQj6IIDMhgShxgw), if you're interested, and. as always, you can find me being sad and annoying on [tumblr](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/). if you have any questions, ideas, stuff you wanna scream at me about. pls pls don't hesitate, and. stay safe and take care of yourselves 💜

**Author's Note:**

> so! this is the 'billy comes to hawkins a year earlier, monsters don't exist, the author cares exclusively about the relationship between billy and steve' au nobody asked for! 
> 
> i'm @[aspartaeme](https://aspartaeme.tumblr.com/) on tumblr. i thrive off of comments and nice messages so, if you enjoyed this, pls let me know!


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